Page 22 of Sinful Like Us

He wipes his hands on a towel. “You aren’t gonna find sparkling water here.”

“We’re fromhere.” I scowl, acid running in the back of my throat. I’d take a punching bag and gloves right about now. Nothing grates on me like people trying to shove me out of the place where I grew up.

This is my fucking home. I’m South Philly born and bred.

“Doesn’t look like it to me.” He tosses his towel aside.

I don’t break his gaze. “Tap is fine.”

He quirks his brow. “You’re with a Cobalt, aren’t you? You’re probably drinkin’ some gold-infused sparkling water seven days a week.”

I glare, unblinking. What makes him think I’d tell himanythingabout the Cobalts?

“My brother doesn’t drink bougie water,” Banks says coldly to the bartender.

Banks has always thought even knock-off brandbottledwater is bougie. Which he knows I drink a fuck ton of, so he’s just trying to push the bartender off my ass.

Somewhere on the other side of the packed bar, a man shouts, “Yeah, he’s just been fuckin’ a bougie girl!”

My narrowed eyes swerve and find the voice. Grease stains his white shirt, his middle-aged face weather-beaten and antagonizing.

He leers over the bar. “Women around here aren’t good enough for you? You gotta go eat that expensive pus—”

“You want your head inside your asshole, keep fucking talking,” I growl, blood coursing hot through my veins.

Banks chews his toothpick and stands threateningly off the stool. His arms crossing over his firm chest.

The guy looks between us and our towering heights and cut builds. His smile recedes with a breathy laugh, and then he raises his hands. “Just sayin’ what everyone is thinking.”

Banks says frostily, “No one asked you.”

He opens his mouth again, but people nearby yell at him to shut up and just drink. We all reroute our attention, and the bartender slides an ale to my brother and a glass of tap water to me.

Banks sinks back onto the stool. “What a fucking stunad.”

I nod, knowing he’s calling him adrunk idiot.I check my phone.

No new messages.

Charlie hasn’t replied. With a rough hand, I rub my sore jaw that I’ve been clenching. I push back some apprehension and grip my glass of water.

Banks has been waiting for Friday Night Fight to start, a pro-wrestling match that plays weekly. But as I look at the TV, entertainment news airs first with some blonde hotshot, Hollywood-looking anchor—and the current topic isme.

I can’t look away.

JANE COBALT & HER BODYGUARD BOYFRIEND – HAVE THEY SPLIT?

Fake.

Rumor.

Still, I’m reading the slow closed captions with a knot in my throat.

Where is… Thatcher Moretti? Fans are wondering… why Jane Cobalt… has a new bodyguard. Trouble… might be brewing between the… 23-yr-old American princess… and her towering, rugged protector… make that ex-protector.

This November, Jane has barely… been spotted with Moretti in public. If you thought they’d head down the altar… before Maximoff & Farrow… maybe you should… rethink your bet.

I stop reading, and I take a tense sip of water. “I’m fine,” I say, sensing Banks staring. I try to pack away most ass-backwards, eye-roll-inducing commentary from the media, but this one slices at the neck.