Page 74 of Heartbreaker

Dash grins.

Banks barely spares us a scowl. “Fuck off. Aspen hasn’t been feeling well.”

We all sit up a little straighter.

“What do you mean?” Atlas asks brusquely. “She was fine at Christmas.”

“She’s not feeling well,” Banks semi-repeats. “She’s puking all the time, tired, and she passed out today.”

Atlas sets his drink on the table with athunk, sending liquid sloshing over the rim. “What the actual fuck, Banksy?” he snaps. “There is no way she should be here tonight?—”

“Oh believe me,” Banks mutters, and I realize that he’s drinking water. “I know.”

So totally whipped.

And worried.

And—

“I tried to tell her to stay home”—he tosses up his hands—“but would she listen to me? Of course fucking not.”

Dash and my gazes connect and we exchange a knowing wince. As much as we might like to think that we could control the women in our life—coughBriar—they’ve more than often decided to have their own minds.

Which is a thought I’m going to keep to myself—secure and well away from the women in my life.

But, seriously, case in point?

Briar and her stubborn independence.

And Frankie, her little mini-me.

And—I slant my eyes to the bar, where a certain brunette spitfire is dutifully serving customers, despite the dark circles under her eyes and the pale skin—Aspen.

And…

Jade.

She’s sweet, kind, and possesses a rather impressive stubborn streak.

I’m not afraid of you, Royal Ewing.

Well, she should be.

“I’ll fire her,” Atlas says, his overprotectiveness meaning that he’s fully prepared to go with the nuclear option. “In fact”—he drops his palms to the table, starts to push up to his feet—“I’ll tell her right now.”

That has Banks snapping out of it, fisting the back of Atlas’s suit and tugging him back down into the booth. “No, you fucking won’t,” he snaps. “Aspen loves this place and is just starting to get comfortable in her position—” He rips his eyes from the woman he loves and glares at Atlas then all of us in turn. “No one is going to jeopardize that.”

“Got it, Banksy,” Dash mutters.

I lift my hands, palms out, in surrender.

Atlas takes the longest to cave—he is protective of women in general, but most especially of women who’ve been through the ringer (like Briar, anddefinitelylike Aspen)—but he eventually nods and grumbles. “Fine. I won’t fire her.” A beat. “Yet.”

I want to laugh, but I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

Which I mostly do by finishing off the rest of my drink—and then ordering another from the bar.

Aspen serves me with an edgy smile. “Another Gamebreaker?”

---