Page 225 of Broken Brothers

“Layla!”

“I’m sorry, Chance.”

My lip quivered as I bit it. I bowed my head. I was fighting so hard to stay in control. Inside, I was yelling at myself, calling myself a fucking idiot for going out with Sarah. Layla was acting in the right; even if the reality didn’t match up with her perception, her perception was the only reality she had to go on. I should have known that.

“I wish you luck, I really do,” she said. “I’ll text you before I leave New York if you want to grab coffee or lunch. But it’ll be strictly as friends.”

Fuck…

Chance Hunt, the idiot, strikes again.

“OK,” I said.

I went to hug her, but she just kind of passively accepted the hug; it definitely wasn’t the same type of embrace that she had given me earlier. I pulled back, not wanting to waste any more of her time. I nodded, turned, and walked away as I heard her unlock her apartment, step inside, and then lock it behind me.

When I got to the elevator doors, I just leaned against the wall. This has nothing to do with you bringing it up as you did. She handled your juvenile accusation just fine. This has everything to do with you not giving her the respect she gave you.

She fucking held off on accepting a dream job for you! And you couldn’t even keep a “date” with an old friend to an hour. No wonder she said to go away. She deserves better than you. She certainly can.

The elevator doors opened, but it felt like the path to my personal happiness had slammed shut like a house door during a hurricane. I slumped against the elevator, ignoring the other tenant looking at me. I pulled out my phone, looked through my texts, and saw that Sarah had sent me a message asking me to let her know when and if I could make tonight work.

I stared at it, and for a long time, I was determined to ignore it. I thought of Layla’s words—she’s someone that you’re going to run to the minute things don’t work out between us—and wanted to refute that notion. I didn’t want to prove Layla right with how immature and weak I was.

But by the time the elevator doors had gotten to the bottom of the apartment complex, the immature and needy side of me said “fuck that.” It didn’t care about what Layla wanted. She wasn’t an option anymore, and so she didn’t get the right to hold herself over my head like so.

“Hey,” I wrote Sarah. “Let’s meet up tonight for some drinks and fun, huh?”

I sent a kissy emoji along with it. Sarah’s response was immediate.

“That sounds like a delight.”

A dangerous kind of delight.

And one that I’m free to do now.

90

The very first bar Layla and I had met at, back in our degenerate hookup days while I was at Burnson Investments, played host to the start of the evening for Sarah and I.

Unlike Friday, when I had played distant and tried to have my cake without necessarily actually eating it, I had no pretenses that I was going to be a good boy who could resist the siren’s call of temptation. I was going to get drunk with Sarah, we were going to do some freaky things in this place, we were going to have wild sex in my place or her hotel, and then all of the demons and yearning that my childhood self had wanted would go right out the window.

It was such a perfect plan. And one that you know is so full of shit. You know full well you’re not going to solve anything by fucking Sarah.

Shut up, brain. Let me have some fun tonight. I fucking need it.

Sarah met me outside the bar wearing a top that revealed a great deal of cleavage, tight jeans that showed off her slim figure,and bright red lipstick that had me thinking about where on my body those lips could go.

“Hey, sexy,” I said.

I had on a suit and no tie. I had groomed myself for what felt like the previous two hours—I had gone into everything I could have done to make myself look as handsome yet rugged and tough as possible. I was going to spare no expense and leave no stone unturned tonight. Sarah Hill was going to get me at my absolute best.

For one night before she disappeared back to Oxford, I could give her my all.

And yet, Layla never got that. Not since you started getting back together. How fucked up is that, ya dummy?

“Oh, my,” she said, coming in close and giving me a hug.Damn, her perfume smells hot as hell.“Aren’t you looking mighty fine tonight?”

“I could say the same for you, pretty lady,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.