Page 50 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

I sipped on flat beer and leaned against a sticky table, the faint scent of spilled liquor and stale beer clinging to the wood.

I threw darts at a battered dartboard, its face missing a few numbers. Only faint impressions remained where the metal rungs used to be, still present enough to mark our targets.

I listened to stories about people I didn’t know in a town I barely recognized.

And I had a surprisingly good time doing it.

Brent and I easily beat Trevor and Sam in the first game, but they caught on to something in the second. We had to play one more to break the tie, but Brent and I clinched it in the end when I threw a double bullseye.

As we sipped on the last of our beer, the noise from the bar area had grown quiet. Hopefully, the mass of guys had cleared out at this point.

I felt a twinge of jealousy at the images I conjured up of one or two of them lingering to flirt with the hot bartender.

“Good game, man,” Brent said as he shook my hand firmly.

“Yeah, I’d ask you to join our Tuesday night league if you were going to stick around,” Trevor added.

Brent had filled in the blank spaces of who I was for Trevor and Sam.

They pressed me for a few personal questions, enough to scratch the surface.

The news of Sophia’s new job had already spread to them—and based on what I could tell, that was the only news that had spread to them—and they ribbed me about my newest employee .

Besides that, their stories and jokes flowed easily, carrying the conversation through the evening.

It was simple, lighthearted fun.

It struck me how different this was from nights with Davis and Sullivan back in New York.

With them, there was always an edge to our conversations, a calculated undertone beneath the surface.

Every laugh came with an agenda, every drink carried an unspoken barter.

It wasn’t just friendship—it was strategy, a constant game of chess where trust was just another piece to be played.

I didn’t fault them for it. It was my nature, too.

But sitting here, sharing aimless stories with Trevor, Brent, and Sam, I realized how rare it was to let my guard down. No stakes, no angles—just the fleeting simplicity of cheap beer and friendly competition.

I felt like this could also be my nature—two different worlds, two different lives, two different brands of fun.

“I’ll make sure Soph got all these tallied up,” Sam stated as he carried the empty pitcher with him toward the other side of the wall.

I started gathering the empty glasses and followed close behind, wanting to ensure I paid the bill. I figured it was the least I could do. These guys unknowingly turned a shitty night into a halfway decent one.

The bar was empty—no more burly men—but also no more Sophia.

“Soph!” Sam called out, his voice echoing in the space. The sound of the glass pitcher being set on the bar was almost noisy in the now quiet room.

“This is creepy,” Sam remarked.

I set the glasses down, and a sinking feeling settled in my gut. I felt a cold gust of air prickling my skin as I walked to the end of the bar. I peered down a small corridor where a backdoor was propped open, leading to a dimly lit gravel lot.

I didn’t think, just acted, and stormed outside into the biting cold. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The chill bit through my shirt, but I barely felt it.

My gaze darted frantically across the dimly lit parking lot, and my breath clouded the air .

“Sophia!” I shouted, my voice echoing into the stillness. No response. Just the eerie quiet of the empty lot. My pulse pounded as I quickened my pace, each step heavy with dread.

“Get off of me!” Sophia’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and desperate, coming from behind the concrete wall near the dumpster.

Adrenaline surged like wildfire as I sprinted toward her voice, my veins fueled by alcohol, fear, and unrelenting rage.

When I rounded the corner, I saw him. Gripping her arm like she owed him something that he was intent on taking.

Sophia’s face was flushed, her breath coming in harsh puffs, and her eyes were wide with fear.

His smug expression vanished the second he saw me.

Landon fucking Norwood.

I didn’t hesitate. I slammed into him, shoving him back with all the force I could muster. He stumbled, his hand slipping from her arm as he caught himself against the wall.

His shock was evident—he hadn’t expected me, especially not here.

“Corbin!” Sophia’s voice wavered, a mix of relief and fear.

But I couldn’t focus on her.

All I felt was anger, red-hot and relentless, coursing through me.

All I saw was Landon, and he was a fucking dead man.