Page 131 of Resisting Isaac

Fuck me.

I do not want to see this particular woman here. She’s a damn kid, can’t be more than twenty.

Brooklyn Harris is wearing nothing but a silver sequined G-string bikini and confidence, but her eyes are somewhere else.

Cold. Distant.

Empty.

Beau leans in. “Told you.”

I groan.

Brett whistles low. “Damn what I wouldn’t give to?—”

“Don’t,” I say so I don’t have to punch him in the mouth on principle.

He shakes his head. “You’re a real buzzkill tonight, Logan.”

“Hence why I was heading home.”

Home.I used to love that word. Now all it does is remind me where my brand-new wife isn’t.

Without her there, wearing my hoodie, wrapped in a blanket, sneaking treats to the dogs, it’s just a house.

A sad, empty, lonely house.

The throbbing in my head intensifies.

This night just went from bad to worse.

Asher is going to be fucking irate.Check in on the Harriskids when you can, he writes in every letter. With Ethan gone, he seemed to believe they were his responsibility now.

Ethan Harris was Asher’s best friend all through high school. They’d enlisted together, been deployed and served together. Asher never talked about it, but I was pretty sure he’d been there when Ethan was shot and killed while serving overseas.

His dead best friend’s little sister taking her clothes off for cash isn’t something I want him to learn about in a letter. But I’m not sure how else to get in touch with him.

I checked in on them like Asher said. Brooklyn always told me to mind my own business anytime I’d asked if she needed anything. I’d given her my number and told her to call anytime, not in a booty call kind of way. She’d eyed me like I was amusing. And annoying.

She’d never once asked me for anything, no matter how much I offered. Seeing her working here, knowing things got bad enough that she’d resort to this, stings.

I always make sure to tip a ridiculous amount when she’s working at the bar. Wyatt does, too, and I give Brett and Beau hell if they don’t. But if she’s here, what she’s making at The Stillery isn’t enough. And she’s desperate.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with this profession. In my opinion, they’re performing a valuable public service. If Brooklyn was like Carly Rae and enjoyed the attention, got a thrill from flaunting her body, and wouldn’t feel guilty about it later, I’d tell Asher to suck it up and let the girl do what she enjoys.

But Brooklyn is not enjoying this. At all.

She doesn’t even glance my way. She doesn’t glance anyone’s way—just stares off into the distance not really seeing anyone from the looks of it.

I can’t tell if she’s high on something, clinically depressed, or intentionally disassociating.

Either way, this is bad. Really damn bad.

She writhes against the pole on stage then turns her back to us and begins untying her top.

I push up from the booth, still slightly dizzy from the alcohol. I can’t be here. I can’t see this. Because I won’t be able tounseeit.

Asher would carve my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon.