Page 98 of Ruled By Fate

Sherry got up and suavely introduced Rashida to the handsome soccer player sitting nearby. He played the moment well, kissing her hand lightly while maintaining eye contact and delivering what was surely an effective compliment before offering to buy her a drink.

The lovely woman graciously accepted, and the two headed to the opposite end of the bar to get to know one another better under the pretense of ordering cocktails.

Brie watched in silence, feeling like something had stolen her breath.

They would probably hit it off beautifully. Maybe they’d get a couple of drinks and watch the sunset together before finding an excuse to meet up again. Maybe they’d spend the night together straight away. Maybe they’d end up getting married and living in a house with a white picket fence and an ancient oak in the front yard with a tire swing for their two-point-five beautiful children. They’d probably get a dog to teach the kids about responsibility when the time felt right.

The blush of a new romance, the comfortable glow of the bar lights, the laughter of friends and comrades, the general air of merriment and unconcern… Brie didn’t feel like she had a place in any of it. She reached up and touched her necklace.

I’ll never have it. Not if I keep wearing this. It’ll just be danger and darkness.

And there’s nothing I can do.

A dark mix of emotions rose in her throat. She bit her lip, reopening a cut, and tasted copper. She gritted her teeth, squared her shoulders, and clamped down her jaw, trying to push the feelings back down. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for her to feel them, so what was the point?

Just ignore it, right? Even her thoughts were tinged with bitter sarcasm. Her face twitched as she tightened her eyes and thinned the edges of her lips. It’s fine, right? Everything’s friggin’ perfect.

The bartender placed two shots on the counter next to her. She threw hers back with abandon without bothering with the salt or citrus. She drank Rashida’s too.

Then she plastered a smile on her face and walked over to join her friends.

“The woman of the hour!” Sherry raised her glass in greeting. “Ida just told us. How did you know? How could you possibly have known? Brie, that’s amazing! Did you brush up on your toxicology studies this past year or something?”

Cameron got up from his seat under the pretext of taking her coat. “What happened?” he whispered in her ear.

She just shook her head.

“Brianna, if you want to leave, we can.”

“I don’t want to leave,” she answered with a strangely flat affectation. “This is where I belong. Right here. With my friends. In this bar.”

He nodded cautiously and took a seat, still eyeing her with concern. She ignored him. “How did the rest of the afternoon go?” she asked the group.

“Nowhere near as exciting as yours,” Sherry exclaimed. “Mike’s been off his phone all day, trying to rein in the screen time, so we only just heard. Do you really think there was a poisoner in the hospital? I mean, that’s just insane. Do they have any idea who it might be?”

Brie finished whoever’s whiskey happened to be in front of her. She answered a little too loud. “Yeah, it was super crazy. Tell me all about soccer. What happened?”

There was a split second of silence, then Sherry pushed them quickly past it. “Well, you know how Cam got hit in the face?” she began. “It happened again. Somebody had the bright idea of making him the goalie—”

Mike threw up his hands with a grin. “In my defense, I thought there was no way he’d be a worse goalie than a midfielder.”

“But somehow failed to teach him how to, you know, stop the ball. So instead of catching it like most people, he decided to use his whole face,” Sherry finished.

Of course he did.

The guy shoots lightning from his hands, but heaven forbid he catch a soccer ball.

“It turns out you’re allowed to use your hands when you play goalie,” Cameron piped up.

“Is that why you’re sporting that stuff up your nose?” Brie eyed him sarcastically. “Don’t you think you should take those out? You look ridiculous.”

“This is a wound, Brianna. I’ve been wounded.”

It looked like he wanted to say more about it. It looked as though, at some point during the afternoon, he’d probably transcribed the entire experience into song. But he took a single look at her face, and the words died on his tongue. A second later, he pulled out the tissues.

For the next fifteen minutes, Brie drank steadily through the banter. She let out a hard laugh when the others laughed. She smiled cheerlessly when the others did. She didn’t contribute, didn’t speak. What she did was throw back shot after shot until the room swayed unsteadily beneath her. Cameron monitored her with increasing worry, but she refused to look his way.

“Yeah, we should totally go. It’s by this great director, a real visionary in the horror genre.”

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