Page 87 of Wait For It

The longer Bailey watched me with that shit-eating grin of his, the more I found myself wanting to stuff his mouth full of limes—anything to shut him up.

“So, you’re telling me the great Conor Bailey has never been wrecked over a woman before? Not even once?”

Bailey’s grin faltered. He tapped his phone, where it lay against the bar, checking the time. “Christ, it’s getting late.”

I pushed. “I take it that’s a no. So really, for all you know, I might just be dealing with some residual lust where Ari is concerned. We didn’t have sex, so I’m stuck fixating on what might have been, yeah?”

“Residual lust, huh?” Bailey tapped the edge of his phone rhythmically against the bar top. “If you buy that, I’ve got some ocean-front property in Colorado I’d be willing to sell you. Answering your question—no, I’ve never been in love. But I am just buzzed enough to admit that there was a girl I was hung up on a few years ago.”

Maybe it was the beer and lack of sleep catching up to me, or just a sense of morbid curiosity that prompted me to ask, “Who?”

Bailey resumed his study of the bottles of alcohol lining the back of the bar, his brow tight with concern. “Like I said, it’s late. Did you drive here?”

I shook my head. “No, I did the app thing. Didn’t know how parking was gonna be and wasn’t up for a hike on crutches.”

He nodded at my long-winded answer before picking up his phone. “I’ll order a sober ride.”

“We can talk while we wait. C’mon, don’t make me the girl here—” I was poking the bear. I knew it, but I’d long considered Bailey an open book. Anything that would cause him to shut down completely seemed cause for concern.

My teammate was quiet for a long moment, avoiding my question while he ordered our car. I assumed that was the end of the discussion, so I was more than a little surprised when he turned to face me.

“It was about—shit, five years ago? We spent one night together and when I woke up the next morning, she was gone. The end. I need to hit the head. Keep an eye out for our ride, will ya?” Bailey slid off the stool, his usual grin back in place as if the confession had cost him nothing.

I watched as he made his way to the back, regretting ever asking him to open up. Because, if a girl he slept with once was still fucking with his head five years later, then I didn’t have a chance in hell of ever getting rid of Ari.

Blasts of cold air hit my back as people came and went, and I watched dispassionately until one man, in particular, caught my eye.

My father.

He seemed to hesitate as he scanned the bar. I shook my head, wondering how often he snuck into the city for a fix. My jaw tightened at the memory of my mother putting on a pot of coffee, prepared to wait up until he made it home safely.

Son-of-a-bitch.

For a minute there, I’d actually considered he was calling because he wanted to rebuild our relationship, but he was always going to be this. The guy who had no trouble jumping my ass over following the rules and not letting people down couldn’t take his own advice.

Was my mother waiting up now, trying to convince herself he just had a meeting that ran late? Was she telling herself the same thing she’d often told me—hate the addiction, love the addict?

I wasn’t even aware I was pushing off the bar until my feet were on the floor. I grabbed my crutches and began fighting my way through the crowd, gearing up for a showdown.

“Joe!” I roared when I was about ten feet away, hearing the note of hysteria in my voice. When he didn’t turn around, the madness gave way to fury. I began elbowing people out of my way to catch up.

“You’re Killian Reed!” someone loudly exclaimed, patting my back.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I muttered under my breath, before giving the guy a tight nod. Fortunately, my father was still blissfully unaware I was in the room, which worked well for what I was about to do.

Bailey emerged from the bathroom, his eyes narrowing in confusion when they landed on me. I felt the heat in my face, fully aware I probably resembled a tomato, but there was no controlling the fire in my veins. Not now—not when the last twelve years had been a lie meant to placate me into obeying.

I turned away from my friend’s pointed stare, coming up behind Joe just as he stepped up to the bar. He leaned forward and out of reach of my hand, loudly calling out, “I’m looking for Conor! Anyone here named Conor?”

My arm dropped, along with my jaw, and I began trying to back away, only to find the crowd had boxed me in, clamoring for me to pose for selfies or quickies—it was hard to differentiate.

Bailey chose that moment to stick his fingers in his mouth, emitting an ear-splitting whistle that could be heard for blocks.

“I’m Conor!” he bellowed, waving his hands.

My father turned at the noise, his jaw flexing when he noticed my presence. “Killian?”

I nodded and jerked a thumb toward Bailey, no longer trusting myself to speak—or think. It seemed I didn’t know anything anymore.

---