Page 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Royal

The music blasts, and the bar is full.

And every time I walk through the doors to The Sapphire Room, I can’t help but think that Colt would love it here.

That’s the point, though, isn’t it?

To create a place he would have fucking loved .

Well, mission accomplished.

I sit in the back, at the table with the small brass sign engraved with Reserved for Colt. It’s always kept empty unless one of us is here.

Tonight it’s full of Gamebreakers.

Banks because the Vipers don’t have a game and Aspen’s working—and right now, where Aspen is, is where Banks is.

Or I guess it’s been that way from the moment he first fell for her.

Dash because he’s in town and not working for once.

Atlas because he’s the most hands on of all of us with the club. His business acumen and control freak ways make him the perfect candidate for being in charge of the day-to-day operations.

And me.

I’m rarely at the club unless the guys—or Briar—make me, and yeah, that problem gives even more credence to what I was telling Jade before we flew out this morning.

I’m no good for her.

I’m no good for anyone.

I can’t even bring myself to spend time with my friends, with my family . It’s only the creeping silence in my house—no Jade in the kitchen, humming as she cooks; no Jade sputtering, snow melting on her eyelashes; no Jade curled up beside me in bed, her lush little body pressed to mine; no Jade?—

No Jade.

She texted me to let me know she arrived safely in Nashville—a text I stayed pathetically glued to my cell, waiting for it to come in.

And I’d replied I was glad she safely made it.

And…

That was it.

She’s going back to her life. I’m back in mine.

Except, I promised that we’ll figure something out.

I just…

Have no fucking clue what that means, no fucking clue what I can give her, no fucking clue what I’m doing .

And I couldn’t sit at home in my silent, empty house one more night.

So, when Banks texted the group chat and said he was coming to The Sapphire Room tonight and the guys chimed in that they were available and would join him—with the exception of Briar (who’s one of us guys, for all intents and purposes), and who’s having a self-care Saturday (whatever the fuck that means) with Frankie—I decided to join the guys.

Better sitting around brooding here than at home.

Dash jabs his elbow into my side, and I glare at him. “What?”

He jerks his chin toward Banks—who’s drinking in the sight of Aspen behind the bar like she’s the only drop of water in the Sahara Desert. “Whipped.”

“Aren’t we a little old to be giving each other shit about women?” I grumble.

Atlas picks up his Gamebreaker and reclines back against the black leather of the booth. “Nah. We’re never too old to give each other shit about anything—but most especially women.”

I roll my eyes.

Dash grins.

Banks barely spares us a scowl. “Fuck off. Aspen hasn’t been feeling well.”

We all sit up a little straighter.

“What do you mean?” Atlas asks brusquely. “She was fine at Christmas.”

“She’s not feeling well,” Banks semi-repeats. “She’s puking all the time, tired, and she passed out today.”

Atlas sets his drink on the table with a thunk , sending liquid sloshing over the rim. “What the actual fuck, Banksy?” he snaps. “There is no way she should be here tonight?—”

“Oh believe me,” Banks mutters, and I realize that he’s drinking water. “I know.”

So totally whipped.

And worried.

And—

“I tried to tell her to stay home”—he tosses up his hands—“but would she listen to me? Of course fucking not.”

Dash and my gazes connect and we exchange a knowing wince. As much as we might like to think that we could control the women in our life—cough Briar —they’ve more than often decided to have their own minds.

Which is a thought I’m going to keep to myself—secure and well away from the women in my life.

But, seriously, case in point?

Briar and her stubborn independence.

And Frankie, her little mini-me.

And—I slant my eyes to the bar, where a certain brunette spitfire is dutifully serving customers, despite the dark circles under her eyes and the pale skin—Aspen.

And…

Jade.

She’s sweet, kind, and possesses a rather impressive stubborn streak.

I’m not afraid of you, Royal Ewing.

Well, she should be.

“I’ll fire her,” Atlas says, his overprotectiveness meaning that he’s fully prepared to go with the nuclear option. “In fact”—he drops his palms to the table, starts to push up to his feet—“I’ll tell her right now.”

That has Banks snapping out of it, fisting the back of Atlas’s suit and tugging him back down into the booth. “No, you fucking won’t,” he snaps. “Aspen loves this place and is just starting to get comfortable in her position—” He rips his eyes from the woman he loves and glares at Atlas then all of us in turn. “No one is going to jeopardize that.”

“Got it, Banksy,” Dash mutters.

I lift my hands, palms out, in surrender.

Atlas takes the longest to cave—he is protective of women in general, but most especially of women who’ve been through the ringer (like Briar, and definitely like Aspen)—but he eventually nods and grumbles. “Fine. I won’t fire her.” A beat. “Yet.”

I want to laugh, but I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

Which I mostly do by finishing off the rest of my drink—and then ordering another from the bar.

Aspen serves me with an edgy smile. “Another Gamebreaker?”

“You good?” I ask quietly.

“If Banks is asking,” she says tartly, “then I’m fucking perfect, and he can stop freaking out.”

Yikes.

“And if it’s me?”

She winces. Then sighs, closes her eyes for a second. “Sorry. I’m good. I’m pregnant and sick all the time and I’ve taken more naps in the last month than I’ve had in a lifetime, but I’m…”

“Good?” I finish.

She nods.

“Aspen?” I ask as she turns to help another customer.

“Yeah?” she asks, that edginess drifting back in.

“You might be a little better if you let Banks take care of you.” I lift my hand, holding my thumb and pointer finger apart by maybe a centimeter. “Just a smidge,” I add and wink at her. “Because he’ll definitely feel better.”

I brace for fire (there’s a reason Banks calls this woman spitfire), but her face softens and her mouth hitches. “You’re smart, Royal Ewing,” she says, leaning over the bar and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Tell him I’ll finish this rush and then he can take me home, will ya?”

Saluting, I turn back for the guys.

“What did you say to her?” Banks demands.

“Relax,” I mutter. “We were shooting the shit, but she did ask me to tell you…” I relay the news about the rush and going home and watch as the tension in both Banks and Atlas relaxes.

“What’s that about giving each other shit about women?” I ask pointedly.

“Speaking of that…” Dash trails off and I lift my brows at him in question. “...are we going to talk about the hickey on your neck?”

He jerks at the collar of my shirt.

I freeze.

What the actual fuck?

Then I bat his hands away. “Get fucked,” I snap.

But it’s too late. Banks leans in and tugs my shirt down. “It is a fucking hickey. What?” he asks, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him joke all night (and of course, it’s at my fucking expense). “Are we in high school again?”

“Yeah,” I grind out, “like a girl would touch you in high school. Weren’t you a virgin until college?”

“Nice try”—he grins—“Becky Connor. Eleventh grade.”

“Congrats,” I say dryly and drain my glass, consider another. Unfortunately, I drove here so I can’t make this conversation go away by getting drunk.

“Wait,” Dash says. “Weren’t you with Jade Cantrell over the weekend?”

I open my mouth.

“Yup,” Atlas says before I can lie. “Spending the weekend songwriting .”

“So did that” —he grins and nods at my neck—“happen between writing the chorus and the second verse?” Dash asks.

Atlas snorts.

Banks busts up.

“Fuck off,” I growl.

“Ah, man,” Dash says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Relax. We’re just happy you fucked someone other than a harpy or a groupie.”

My temple starts throbbing.

But thankfully the guys pick up that I’m at the end of my rope—or that I’m ready to flip the table and get the fuck out of here—because they change the subject. Atlas discusses his latest business ventures, along with the extra travel that will come with it. Dash mentions he picked up doing a security rework for a big time Hollywood actor with a stalker problem. And Banks talks about hockey—and how things have finally leveled out for him.

I don’t share about getting snowed in with Jade, about setting the sheets on fire, about the snowball fight, and all the other things, the feelings, the promises. Those are for me—for us—only.

But I do tell them about working with her.

“She’s fucking smart, man,” I say. “And talented. She can hear the music before it’s even played and has the singing chops to back up what’s running through her mind.” I shake my head. “I’ve never written so many songs or done it so easily.”

“Impressive,” Atlas says.

“Yeah.” I pick up my glass, drain the dredges as silence falls between us.

Thankfully, they don’t give me shit for once.

Or maybe that’s because Aspen is heading our way, clearly having wrapped up what she needed to wrap up.

Banks jumps to his feet, starts for her, then stops. “I almost forgot. I got ice time next Tuesday. You guys in for some old school Gamebreaker action?”

“I’m in,” Atlas says. “My plane out isn’t till Thursday.”

“Righteous,” Dash says, extending his fist for Atlas and then Banks to bump. “You both know I’m in.”

Three sets of eyes come to mine.

I shrug, pushing past the uneasiness that flicks the back of my psyche. “I’m in too.”

Now three sets of eye brows shoot nearly to their hairlines.

“You’re in?” Banks asks.

I glare at him. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Banks looks at Atlas, who shrugs. “That is what he said.”

“Christ,” I mutter, that throb in my temple growing.

“Fuck, man.” Dash claps me on the shoulder again, so hard that my teeth click together— which is probably for the best because it stifles what I would say in response to his next words.

“You need to marry this one.”