Page 97 of One Last Encore

Beck sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "I’m really sorry you both had to see that," he muttered.

Before either of them could respond, he stood abruptly, his shoulders tense, and walked toward the bar.

Eden slid into the seat Beck had vacated, her eyes flicking toward him before settling back on Ingrid.

"Are you okay?" Eden asked gently, her concern clear in her voice. Ingrid barely heard her.

Her gaze was fixed on Beck. He’d said something brief to the bartender and whatever it was, it earned a laugh, and the man poured him another drink. She wasn’t sure how Beck had managed to smooth things over, but he had. The bartender didn’t seem to care that he’d just punched a hole in the wall.

Beck grabbed the glass almost before it was set down, his knuckles tight around it, his grip white. He didn’t savor it. He didn’t even taste it. He was drinking to disappear.

His motions were harsh, angry, like he was trying to bury something inside of him, trying to outrun the pain. This wasn’t a bad night or a one-time spiral. This was a pattern. A wound left untreated. A need for numbness.

Her body screamed at her to stand up, to cross the room, to pull him away from the bar, to tell him he didn’t have to fight alone. But she stayed seated, frozen, hands gripping the edge of the table as if it could stop her from falling apart.

"Ingrid," Eden said again, her voice soft but insistent.

It was enough to pull Ingrid’s gaze back to her friend, but the ache in her chest didn’t ease.

"I don’t know," Ingrid whispered, her voice trembling. She didn’t even know what she was answering.

Her gaze darted back to Beck as he poured himself yet another drink. Each sip was another wall, another layer of armor, another step away.

And all Ingrid could do was sit there, helpless, watching the man she cared about slip further away, unsure how to stop it.

CHAPTER 27

BECK. EARLY DECEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

Beck woke up tangled in his sheets, his skull pounding with the merciless ache of a hangover. Morning light slashed through the curtains, cutting into the fog of last night. He groaned, throwing an arm over his face, but the memories were already clawing their way back, sharp, disjointed, and bitter.

His brother’s sneering words. The way he’d dismissed Beck in front of everyone. That casual, cutting cruelty that turned the room into a pit of humiliation. It all came rushing back, leaving a raw, burning anger simmering beneath the exhaustion.

Rodney hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d bulldozed it. This wasn’t some typical blow-up or brotherly spat. It was betrayal, pure and personal, and it hit Beck like a steel-toed kick to the ribs. Not just because of what Rodney had done to him, but because he’d dragged Ingrid into it too. Because he’d made a mess of something that mattered.

He rolled over and blinked at the unfamiliar neatness of his room. The clutter from the night before had vanished. His stomach dropped.

Ingrid. She’d been here. She’d seen him like that again. Had probably wrestled him into bed, cleaned up his mess.

Guilt struck hard and sharp, a flare of heat in his chest. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve him. The image of her face, eyes full of worry, pierced through the haze, and he swore under his breath. This couldn’t keep happening.

If he didn’t get his act together, he wouldn’t just lose himself. He’d lose the one person who still gave a damn.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered. Maybe it was Ingrid. He snatched the phone. His stomach clenched.

A Pennsylvania area code. He didn’t need to look twice to know who it was. His mother.

The correctional facility’s number stared back at him, filling his chest with a familiar, tangled knot of love, disappointment, anger, guilt.

She’d done so much damage. Left so many scars. And yet, there were still fragments of good in the wreckage. Moments he couldn’t let go of, no matter how hard he tried.

With a resigned sigh, Beck accepted the call. The automated voice announcing the prepaid connection faded, and the line clicked open.

"Bear, is that you?"

His mother’s raspy voice crackled over the line, tugging at something deep in his chest. She was the only one who still used that nickname. Rodney, as a kid, couldn’t pronounce Beck, so "Bear" had stuck, but only with her and Grandma.

"Yeah, Mom. It’s me," he said, keeping his voice steady.

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