Page 12 of Bad Blood

“It’s my right.”

He slumps in the booth. “What did I ever do to deserve the torture of having you for a brother?”

“Blessings come in awesome packages.” I paste a condescending smile onto my face.

“I swear, the world has it out for me,” he says as a police car blaring sirens screams past the diner, and he returns his attention to watching Crissy.

“Because you’re too chicken-shit to ask for her number?” I cringe as the sirens fade into the background. They bring back the worst memories.

“No, asshat, because it looks like those damn reporters are going to make going to my appointment a pain in the ass. Do you think it has anything to do with my doctor?”

“Wait, what did you say?”

“She’s supposed to be the best, and if she’s mixed up in this, I don’t think . . .”

He swallows and averts his gaze as Crissy makes her way to the table and sets our plates in front of us. “Two Home Run platters, crispy bacon, and a side of extra-crispy hash browns. Enjoy.”

Confusion wrinkles Liam’s brow seconds before the realization dawns. His demeanor changes, and he shifts in his seat.

I don’t take my eyes off him.

He stares at his hands.

To hell with it. I slam a palm onto the table, and orange juice sloshes over the rim of his cup. The sounds of the diner quiet as everyone’s attention turns to us.

He remains silent.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get her number for you if you talk.” There’s a good chance I overreacted. People continue to stare.

But I don’t care.

He clears his throat and keeps his eyes focused on his scrambled eggs. “The reporters are—”

“I heard that part,” I interrupt. “What are we going to do?”

He drizzles his eggs with ketchup, pulling off the decorative cilantro before dropping it on the side of his plate. He grabs his fork, the salt, and his napkin.

I’m going to strangle him.

“Your food is not that interesting.” Why in the fuck is he ignoring my question?

Crissy returns to the table with another OJ and a carafe of coffee. She slides the cup in front of Liam and refills my mug before she sets our ticket on the table. I lift my hand as she goes to speak, trying to avoid an interruption.

Liam gives her a pitying look as she huffs away from us. He kicks me under the table, and dammit if that shit doesn’t hurt.

“We wait.”

“After that, Liam. Come on. You know what I mean.”

“We could call Grams.” He pulls his shoulders to his ears.

“Nope. I don’t want to get them involved. After what they did—”

“Not everything is about you.” He leans forward across the table, lowering his voice.

Liam glances at the ticket, and a grin spreads across his face. “She left me her number without your help, Mr. Suave,” he mumbles through a mouthful, waving the ticket in my face.

He moves his straw from his empty cup to his new one and stirs his OJ. He catches her eye behind me and mouths, “I’ll call you.”

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