Page 53 of Filthy Secret

Lifting the glass to my lips, I take the shot. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat. I hiss and glance around the room. The party is getting started. The music is loud, the bass filling the room as people talk and drink. Every minute that passes, everyone gets a little louder.

Brew climbs onto the barstool beside me, silently. I pour myself another shot, wondering what the fuck he’s going to say and knowing that I’m not going to like it. Fuck, I haven’t liked much lately when it comes to news, so I shift my attention to him and arch a brow as I wait for the hit.

“You good?” he asks.

“I’m good,” I lie.

He snorts. “King told me that she admitted the kid is yours.”

Nodding once, I lift the glass to my lips and take another shot. I don’t know how many I’m down tonight, but I don’t care either. I don’t know how I feel about any of this, and I’m tired of fucking feeling.

I’m over it.

Part of me wishes I didn’t even know. The other part is still angry that she hid it from me the way she did. At this point, trust seems to be something from the past. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that with her again, no matter how badly I want to believe her blindly. Lifting my hand, I run my fingers through my hair before I pour myself another shot.

“He is.”

Brew jerks his chin, his gaze focused on my profile. I don’t look back over to him. Instead, I continue to pour and drink. One after the other. I’m pretty sure I won’t even be able to walk by the time I’m done here.

Hopefully, I’ll just pass out with my head on the wooden bar top, and when I wake up, shit will be different—better. I doubt that will be the case, but it would be nice to be able to drink problems away—feelings away. I know from experience that it doesn’t work, though.

There is silence until Brew clears his throat. Instead of asking him what he’s thinking, I just wait.

“Dad would love it,” he says, his voice soft.

I almost don’t hear him, and I think about asking him to repeat it just in case I misheard him, but then he continues to speak, and I realize I understood him perfectly.

“He would say that it was time and there’s no better old lady than Ryan for you. He fuckin’ loved that girl. She fucked up, but she had her reasons. She’s not a mean cunt.”

“She stole fifty grand from the club and ran. She kept the knowledge of my child from me for six years. She more than fucked up, brother.”

He lifts his hand, slamming it down on the bar. I watch as he glides his palm across the scarred top before it stops directly in front of my bottle of Crown. He wraps his fingers around it and lifts it, taking it away from me. I almost open my mouth and ask him what the fuck he’s doing.

I don’t.

Mainly because he keeps talking.

“What you don’t need is to lose yourself. It’s fucked what she did. It’s fucked that you didn’t go after her. The whole thing is fucked, and you two are the absolute most stubborn assholes on the planet. It works for you, though. She’s your match in every way.”

My torso sways and I feel like I might actually fall off the chair, but I blink a few more times, trying to gather myself and realizing that I’m already fucking drunk off my ass. Or rather, almost falling onto my ass.

“Brew,” I warn.

He snorts as Clink walks up between us. I feel his arm slide around my shoulder, and he puts his head between me and Brew. He shifts his attention from one side to the other, looking at our profiles with a huge smile playing on his lips.

“Complicated fucking women. They’re going to be the death of all the men here. Swear to fuck. It will not be me. I’ll be the last fucking man standing, swear to shit.”

“Final words spoken like a fucking fool,” I say, every single one of my words slurring, but I don’t think I could not slur my words at this point. I’ve had no food and way too much fucking booze. I’ll be lucky if I make it to the birthday song and cake when it gets here.

“Nobody said I wasn’t,” I point out.

“And speak for your fucking selves,” Brew barks. “I got no woman and no plans on ever having one.”

I hear a noise and swing my attention over to him, watching as my brother stands to his feet, then takes a few steps backward. His gaze finds mine, and he holds it for a moment, but I’m not sure which one of him I should focus on since there are two. So, I just stare between them and hope it appears as if I’m focused on him.

“Whatever you do, you know I’ll always have your back, but I know you better than anyone else here. And I know she’s your Frances,” he says, an effective mic drop, before he turns and walks away.

I don’t have to ask him what he means by Frances. When I got into US History and discovered that I actually shared the name of a president of the United States, Grover Cleveland, I became enamored by learning everything about him, which included his personal life and his young wife, Frances.

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