Page 2 of The Bad Brother

“ L OOK…” EVEN THOUGH I’M DOING MY best to ignore her, River—my lead cocktail waitress, surrogate little sister and at present, relentless torturer has been—with the brief exception of when I stopped Billy the dumbass from stabbing poor Jake with a broken beer bottle—hounding me all night.

Billy wasn’t even out of the parking lot before she started up again.

Because I know better than to hope she’ll give up and walk away, I look up from the Tequila Sunrise I could probably make blindfolded and give her a bland smile.

“Okay.” Widening my gaze slightly when she just stares at me instead of continuing her verbal assault, I drop the bottle of Patrón back into the well. “I’m looking .”

“Yeah—I just didn’t expect you to actually do it,” she tells me, flipping her pale blonde ponytail over her shoulder before setting her service tray on the bar between us. “You’ve been pretending I’m dead the entire night.”

Wishing is more like it.

As soon as I think it, I feel like an asshole. River is family. Some of the only real family I have. If something ever happened to her, I don’t know what I’d do. Just thinking about it is enough to make me sick to my stomach and angry enough to kill something, all at the same time.

“I’m looking,” I repeat myself, softer this time, while sliding the Tequila Sunrise onto her tray. “And listening.”

“I don’t like that you’re alone all the time,” she says quietly, the slight quirk to her mouth telling me that she’s sure I’m going to yell at her. Tell her to mind her own fucking business. That my personal life is mine and has nothing to do with her.

“I’m not alone, Riv,” I tell her as gently as I can. “Matter of fact—” lifting a hand, I gesture it around the very busy, very rowdy bar I own. “I’m never alone.”

Now she frowns at me. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah, I do.

She means sex.

As in, I haven’t had it in well over a year.

One year, nine months, and twenty-six days if we want to get technical.

“Okay.” Lifting her whiskey shots, two at a time, I set them on her tray before folding my arms across my chest. “Conversation’s over.”

“Will you just think about it,” she asks while picking up her tray. “I think you’d really like her.”

Her is the older sister of a friend of hers that she’s been badgering me about for weeks now. She wants to set me up on a blind date with her which is equal parts humiliating and terrifying.

“Sure.” Even though I’m not even slightly interested and have no intention of thinking about anything, I nod. “As long as you don’t bring it up for the rest of the night.”

River flashes me a wide grin. “Deal.”

“Anything else you’d like to harass me about?” I ask with a scowl that would scare anyone but her. She knows it’s an act. I couldn’t be mad at River if I tried.

That grin of hers brightens. “Can we talk about the loft?” My scowl deepens to a snarl. “No.”

Instead of retreating, River gives me an exasperated sigh. “It’s just sitting up there— empty .”

Looking away from her, I pick up a pint and fill it with ice, just to give myself something to do. “So?”

“Jesus.” She huffs it at me like I’m the trial in this conversation. “You’re surprisingly stupid about money for a successful business owner, you know?”

“I own a dive bar, Riv,” I remind her with a head shake. “I wouldn’t exactly call myself successful .”

“And dense.” She rolls her big hazel eyes. “Dense and stupid.”

Slamming my pint glass full of ice down on the bar, I use the mixer gun to fill it with club soda. “If it really bothers you that much, why don’t you move into it?”

She wrinkles her nose at me like I just suggested she sleep in a refrigerator box, down by the river. “ Or I can find someone to move into it for you.”

“Great. Fine.” Giving up because I know she won’t, I fish a lime wedge from the garnish box and squeeze it into my drink. “You do that. ”

“I will.” She gives me a little head bob that sends her ponytail bouncing before she spins away to deliver her drinks.

Shit.

“ Riv .” I practically shout it at her back but she either legitimately can’t hear me over the crowded bar or she’s ignoring me because after months of badgering, she’s finally managed to wear me down.

Without River and her relentless pestering to focus on, the barely controlled chaos of the bar suddenly closes in on me.

Loud music from the better of the two local bands, here in Barrett.

Men shouting. Women laughing. The back door slamming behind someone who’s probably going to puke all over the side of my building. Pool balls clacking.

Looking up, I focus on the bank of pool tables on the other side of the bar. I watch while a couple of creekers strut around one of the pool tables like they own the place, swilling beer and making a general nuisance of themselves.

There it is.

Exactly what I need.

Wiping my hands on the bar towel slung over my shoulder before I toss it in the bin, I shoot a look down the length of the bar at Cade, one of the other two bartenders on duty. “I’m taking thirty,” I shout at him above the din.

Because he’s probably the closest thing I have to a best friend and knows me almost as well as River does, Cade laughs.

“You know it’s bad form to hustle pool in your own bar, right?

” he shouts back while popping the caps on a couple of longnecks.

Passing them over the bar to a couple of starry-eyed women who barely look old enough to drink, he gives them a smile that nearly lays the pair of them out flat.

Whether they know it or not, that’s about as much as they’re going to get out of him.

While he’s not above flirting for tips, Cade is even more out of the game than I am.

His entire focus is on raising his son, Gunner, and staying out of trouble.

No easy task when you’re your family’s black sheep, the town pariah, and a convicted felon.

Cade and I have a lot in common.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” I say while I work my way out from behind the bar. “I won’t take their money.”

I don’t need their money. Don’t even want it.

I just want to embarrass them a little bit.

“Whatever you say, cousin.” Cade flashes me a smirk before he gets back to work.

Cade isn’t really my cousin. What he is, is a little bit more complicated but I’m in no mood to split hairs.

Making my way across the crowded room, I mount the trio of steps that raise the space that houses the pool tables over the rest of the bar. Stopping a few feet from the tables, I lean against the railing, hands dug casually in my pockets while I wait for one of them to notice me.

It doesn’t take long.

Straightening from his shot, Creeker #1 sees me first. As soon as he does, his mouth stretches into a fake grin. “I know you,” he says like he had no idea that this is my bar. “You’re Jensen?—”

“Barrett.” I finish for him, cutting him off before he can say the last name I ditched a long time ago.

“Right.” That fake grin widens. “You’re Ethan’s brother, aren’t you?”

When he says my little brother’s name, I feel the back of my neck tighten. “That’s what my birth certificate says.” I recognize them both. They’re friends of Ethan’s. They played varsity tennis in high school together. Smelling a set up, I pull my hands out of my pockets.

I might’ve hesitated to make an example out of Billy the drunk dumbass but these two—I’m just waiting for a reason.

Creeker #2 laughs like I made a joke. “What are you doing here?” he asks while he stoops to make a bank shot.

The second he calls it, I know it’s a miss.

The angle is off. Mapping the correct angle in my head, I watch the spot where the ball is going to hit the bumper, at least three inches from the pocket he called.

Rearing back with his cue, Creeker #2 takes his shot.

The ball hits the bumper, exactly where I knew it would.

Straightening from his stoop, Creeker #2’s face flushes with embarrassment. Ignoring his sloppy shot, he leans against his pool stick while his partner lines up the next shot he's going to miss.

“Shouldn’t you be at the club with the rest of your family, celebrating your brother’s engagement?” He says it like I knew about it. Like I was invited. Like my family wants me there. “There’s a huge party—everyone’s there.” He smirks at me. “Well… everyone important anyway.”

They’re not your family.

Tank was your family.

River and Austin are your family. Sera and Cade.

The people who’ve stuck by you.

The only family you have and the only family who matters.

I’m sure my brother sent these two dipshits into my bar just to rub in the fact there is, yet again, another family milestone being met without me. I refuse to give them, or my little brother, the satisfaction of knowing how much their exclusion still hurts, even after all these years.

Shaking my head on a perplexed laugh, I give them a shrug.

“Why the fuck would I waste a Friday night in some stuffy country club, drinking watered down booze and eating fancy food that tastes like cardboard?” Before either of them can think of something to say, I push myself away from the railing and advance on the both of them.

“Besides…” Reaching out, I take Creeker #2’s pool cue.

“Who needs some boring ass party when I’ve got you fellas to keep me company?

” Walking away, I take the stick with me while I circle around the table.

“Whaddya say we play a few games and catch up?”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before they look at me. “You want to shoot pool?” Creeker #1 asks. “With us?”

“Sure.” I give him a grin while I chalk my stolen cue. “Any friend of Ethan’s is a friend of mine.” Setting the chalk on the side of the table, I pull the triangle from its hook on the wall and hold it out, changing my mind completely.

I don’t just want them embarrassed.

I want them bankrupt.

“How ‘bout we make it interesting?” When Creeker #2 takes the rack, I give him a smile, “How does five hundred a game sound?”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, MY brOTHER’S henchmen slink out of my bar with their tails tucked and their wallets empty. “Tell Ethan I said congrats on his engagement,” I call after their retreating backs. Creeker #1 flips me the bird before hurrying out the door.

Fuck my brother.

Fuck my parents.

And fuck everyone in that stupid country club and everyone who crosses the river for cheap drinks and a chance to slum it, while we’re at it.

Even though I promised Cade I’d only be gone half an hour, I weave my way through the dense crowd toward the front entrance. When he sees me coming, Austin sits up a little taller on his stool. “Everything okay, boss?”

“Yup.” I don’t look at him when I say it. Just push my way through the door and step into the parking lot. It’s still packed. It’s just before ten o’clock—the bar is at capacity and the mob inside has barely hit their stride. I’ll count myself lucky if the place is still standing in the morning.

Just another Saturday night in Barrett.

Halfway across the lot, I stop and against my better judgment, turn around to look at the two-story brick building behind me.

Seventy-five years ago, it was a mill. Built on the banks of the river it’s named after—both named for the man who founded the town—it served its purpose until there was no more purpose to serve and the mill was shut down in 1983.

The building sat empty for nearly a decade until Tank Barrett decided enough was enough and turned it into a bar in 1991.

I wasn’t even born yet.

This place shouldn’t belong to you. It should belong to Cade or Sera, or fuck—even their stick-up-his-ass brother because even if they don’t carry the name, they’re a thousand times more Barrett than you’ll ever be.

Most of the time I can keep my imposter syndrome down to a whisper. Tonight it’s howling at me.

I blame my brother for sending his shitty friends across the bridge to poke at me and I blame River for opening the wound that gave them something to poke at in the first place.

It’s not River’s fault I got left and it’s sure as hell not her fault that I got cheated on—and as much as I hate to admit it, it’s not Ethan’s fault either.

I can blame him for a lot of things, but not that.

He may have opened the door but Hanna stepped through it all on her own.

The splash of headlights draws my attention away from the family legacy I inherited when I was twenty-three—toward the narrow bridge almost directly north of it.

The Greyhound that runs its route along the I30 like clockwork between Dallas and Texarkana, making its weekly 10:15 detour through Clearwater and into Barrett before continuing on its way.

Watching it crest the bridge, I catch the flash of something in the corner of my eye.

Lights flickering on and off before going dark.

Turning, I stare at the large, dark mass hurdling down the two-lane FM road that intersects the bridge.

It takes a few seconds for my brain to register the shape of it.

By the time it does, it’s too late.

“Hey.” I say it out loud, even though I’m alone and no one can hear me. As if in answer, the rumble of the semi’s engine intensifies .

The semi’s lights are off. Why the fuck are its lights off?

“ Hey .” I shout it again, this time the word catapulting me forward, my feet moving at a dead run across the parking lot, even though I have no way of stopping it.

Finally seeing what I see, the bus driver lays on the horn while jerking the wheel in an attempt to avoid the collision course it’s on with the lightless semi but it’s no use.

Like I said, it’s already too late.