Page 113 of One Last Encore

Ingrid glanced toward the pair, eyes lingering a little too long on Weston. "This final lift is making me nervous."

"Well, yeah," Sylvia said. "It’s hard to trust a partner whose greatest skill is letting people down." She winced and added quickly, "But it’ll be fine."

Beck watched the duo for all of three seconds before deciding, "I don’t know either of them, but I already don’t like those two."

Sylvia raised her glass. "To good instincts."

Beck clinked his whiskey against hers just as Ingrid shot him a look.

"What?" he said, feigning innocence. "I’m just saying… want me to talk some sense into them?"

Ingrid sighed and slipped a hand over his arm. "No. Don’t waste your energy."

Beck grumbled, low and not quite under his breath, "Feels like a wastenotto."

But he let it go, taking a slow, measured drink from his glass. The minutes passed in a blur. Jessica showed up, laughing as she slid into the booth. She and Sylvia fed off each other's energy, loud and full of joy.

After his fifth whiskey, he stood up and steadied himself. "Be right back," he said to Ingrid, brushing his fingers against hers before heading to the bathroom.

And then he saw Weston, posted up near the hallway like some discount Bond villain, arms crossed, smirk dialed to maximum smug. The kind of look that said he thought the room, the building, hell, the planet owed him something just for showing up.

A single glance, and Beck felt heat rise up his spine, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Weston felt his stare and his smirk widened.

"Hey, you’re the guy with Ingrid, right?" His voice carried over the noise of the bar, casual, but with an edge. An invitation.

Beck stopped a few feet away, his fists curling at his sides. "Ingrid’s boyfriend," he said, the word heavier than he expected. It was ballsy considering they hadn’t labeled their relationship but it felt right. It was probably time to have that conversation.

Weston let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Boyfriend, huh? Damn. Didn’t think she’d go for the whole tortured musician thing. I've been trying for years."

Beck didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Weston leaned in slightly, dropping his voice as if sharing a secret. “But hey, good luck. She’s a frigid little ice queen—always has been.” His lips curled. His eyes glittered with something ugly. “Real shame, too.”

Beck felt his heart slam against his ribs, pulse pounding in his neck.

"Question for you,”"Weston drawled, his smirk curdling into something mean. "Does your dick have frostbite, or what?"

Beck didn’t think.

His fist connected with Weston’s face with a clean, brutal crack. Weston stumbled back, hitting the wall hard, blood already pouring from his nose.

"What the fuck?" Weston choked out, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers.

Beck was on him in a second, grabbing a fistful of his collar and yanking him forward until they were nose to nose.

"Say one more word about her," Beck said, voice low and dangerously even, "and I swear to God, I’ll do worse than break your nose."

Weston’s swagger cracked. Just for a second.

Beck shoved him back hard. Weston caught himself on the edge of a table, then lunged, swinging wildly. His fist clipped Beck’s mouth, splitting his lip clean open.

Beck exhaled slowly, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glanced at the smear of red, and smiled wide, a little too easy.

Weston froze. Just a flicker of hesitation. Fear.

"You’re fucking crazy," he breathed.

Beck tilted his head slightly, eyes still locked on him, calm and bright with fury. "You have no idea." He took a step forward, voice quieter now. "Say her name again, and I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare."

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