Page 4 of Beneath Your Beautiful

I took a few deep breaths and pressed the call button. She answered her home phone on the second ring. In the background, I heard a baby crying. Johnny Ramirez’s baby—a boy he’d never gotten the chance to meet. “Anna.”

“Who is this?” she asked, sounding wary. She knew who it was. I met Anna first, at a nightclub on top of the MGM Grand in Vegas four years ago. She quickly figured out I was a one-night kind of guy, but Johnny was a forever kind of guy. Six months later, they got married, and I was his best man. I toasted to their health, happiness, and a long life together.

“It’s Killian. You haven’t cashed the check I sent.”

“Your money won’t bring Johnny back.”

“I know that.”Cash the fucking check. Buy something for yourself. For your son. Goddammit. Let me do something for you. “Anna.Please.”

I was begging for forgiveness, but she couldn’t give it to me. I was the man who ruined her life, and nothing I said or did could ever change that.

“Don’t call me again.” She cut the call, and I punched a hole in the living room wall of the crappy house I rented in Greenpoint. I wanted to burn the house to the ground—set fire to the whole fucking world. But it wouldn’t bring Johnny back. Nothing would.

I heard the front door open, and the rumble of a Harley engine in the hallway. Fucking Connor. Why couldn’t he park it on the street? Instead of going through the hallway into the backyard like he usually did, he cut the engine. A few seconds later, I heard his voice.

“You got what I need?”

I stalked into the hallway, catching him by surprise. He grinned and gave me a mock salute. He was feeling good.Too good.

“Good deal. And throw in some extra pancakes for the crispy duck,” Connor said to the person on the phone, no doubt for my benefit. “Catch you in thirty minutes.”

Connor flipped his phone closed. A burner phone with numbers for “Chinese restaurants” and “pizzerias” that didn’t sell crispy duck or pizza.

“Thought you’d be at work,” he said, cracking his neck.

“Don’t make that pickup. You don’t need that shit. I’ll get you into the best rehab money can buy.”

He climbed off his bike and rested his helmet on the seat. “Go to work. It’s just Chinese takeout.”

I grabbed him by his black leather jacket and slammed him against the wall. He looked like the younger version of me—dark hair, olive skin, blue eyes. Same height, similar build. But his body was filled with so many toxic chemicals, it was only a matter of time before they killed him. Over the past year, he must have dropped twenty pounds. His motorcycle jacket, once fitted to his body, hung looser on his frame, and his face looked gaunt. “This shit needs to stop.”

“Punch me if it makes you feel better.” He jutted out his chin. “Go on. I can take it.”

I released my hold and took a step back. I would never physically hurt Connor. Beating him up wouldn’t solve anything. “What happened to you?”

“Same thing that happened to you. Life.” He looked at my right hand. “Did you punch another hole in the wall? Did that make everything better?”

He brushed past me and took the stairs two at a time.

The bathroom door shut behind him, and I flexed my hand, not even feeling the sting from the cuts on my knuckles.

I was losing my brother, the only person in this whole fucked-up world I loved. But I didn’t know how to save him. And I didn’t know how to fix what was broken inside him.

Chapter Three

Eden

Six Months Later

Another bar, another rejection. I’d been to cocktail bars, dive bars, nightclubs, and now this rooftop bar. They all wanted someone with experience. How did you get experience unless someone gave you a shot? I considered my options as I washed my hands in the restroom. I’d only been in Brooklyn for three weeks, but I was burning through my savings. Dreams didn’t come cheap. Neither did crappy apartments in Williamsburg.

I studied my reflection in the mirror. Did I reek of desperation? I’d never had a problem getting a job before. I looked down at my outfit—a floaty floral mini dress and suede ankle boots. Maybe it wasn’t sending the right message?

What is wrong with me?I used to have confidence.

“Hey,” a girl said, coming into the restroom.

“Hey.”