Page 87 of Braving the Storm
“Ok, this is perfect.” Layla is just about wriggling in her seat with joy, obviously leaping over the moon, and has all but already packed her best friend’s bags for her.
All while I’m no longer beetroot red after digesting the line of text on my phone screen. No, I’m now a fire engine, with wailing sirens and flashing lights all pointing to how shamefully wet I am for the man with his heavy palm and wicked fingers stroking my soft flesh with such tiny motions that it’s impossible to see what he’s doing. Yet here I am experiencing every slow glide as if it were magnified in intensity.
“I mean, of course they’re gonna hire you, Sarge. We know that already.” Layla says, giving me a long look and I try my best to smile and act like everything is completely normal beneath this table.
The woman in question lets out a groan. “If—and that’s a big if—this works out, there will be no goddamn overalls.”
“I’ll talk to Hayes next time I see him, and ask what they might need help with here on The Loaded Hog rebrand.” Kayce pulls out his own phone and sends off a text.
As Sage chews another fry thoughtfully, starting to reply, andthey start chatting more about the prospect of her imminent move to Crimson Ridge, I feel the distinct vibration of my phone.
At first, I’m certain it’s going to be another sinful message from the man beside me. However, the buzzing keeps going, and that’s when I realize it’s a phone call demanding my attention.
Inwardly I cringe.
This time of night? Out of the blue? It’s only going to be one of two people trying to call me, and neither of them are anyone I have the slightest desire to speak with.
Antoine’s threat from the last time we exchanged words echoes in my ears. As much as I really, really do not want to answer this call, it’s easier to take it and not have to deal with the potential man-hunt that might ensue if I decline his attempts to contact me.
“Hey, I’ve got to take this.” I duck my head and speak quietly to the man at my side, not wanting to meet his interrogating stare, nor do I wish to draw too much attention from the rest of the table, all talking animatedly amongst themselves.
The others glance briefly at me. I see Layla’s brow furrow slightly, and I lift the phone and point at it while mouthing a silent apology, well underway with the process of needing to make a hasty exit.
Fortunately, Storm has already slid out of the booth, allowing me to quickly check my dress is back in place, before I escape without so much as a word.
Relief gushes from my lungs, entwined with a sinking feeling in my stomach as I scuttle in the direction of the bathrooms. All I want right now is to get this shit over with as quickly as possible and return to my friends.
My phone screen flashesunknown numberdisplayed in bold letters that I know belongs to only one particular asshole who will be demanding my cooperation. At least it’s not my sister’s tongue-lashing I’ll have to deal with this time around.
“What?” I hiss beneath my breath as I bring the phone to my ear.
“Babe, it’s so goodto hear your voice.”
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. His voice sounds syrupy, heavy with alcohol, the kind of sickly sweetness that causes nothing but rot with everything it touches. There are doors separating the bar area from the corridor containing individual bathroom stalls. At least I can lock myself in one at the far end to deal with whatever this bullshit is as quickly as possible.
“I told you to leave me alone.” Walking straight past the other empty bathrooms, my palm pushes open the door at the farthest end, which, much to my relief, is unoccupied.
“You know I can’t do that, Briar. You’re far too important to me.”
“Fuck you. The only thing that is important is my last name. We both know that.”
As I go to shove the door closed behind me, before I manage to latch the damn thing, the door busts open. On reflex, I jump to avoid the solid wood swinging my way. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, and I’m backed up within a frantic heartbeat. My mouth falls open as those unmistakable broad shoulders and tattoos loom large to fill the space between me and the exit.
Storm locks the door behind him, enclosing us in this shitty little bathroom, and crosses his arms. His gaze flicks between my phone, held at my ear, and back to hold my eyes.
How much of that did he just hear me say?
“That’s not true, babe. I love you. I miss you.”
Antoine’s voice fills the quiet and bounces off the tiles and the cracked mirror above the handbasin. I want to shrivel up and die. The man standing less than a foot from me can hear everything, can hear every pathetic untruth being spouted down the phone, and I feel like my stomach just dropped through the floor.
My throat bobs a heavy swallow, I try to plead with my eyes, to tell him it’s not what it sounds like, to explain that this—whatever this unexpectedly perfect, soul-consuming thing that we have between us—means so much more to me than any painful second I spent with the man on the other end of this call.
“Why don’t you just tell me where you are, and we can put all of this behind us.”
I’m frozen. Words refuse to form. My mouth hangs open and there’s no air reaching my squeezed and shriveled lungs.
“No.” Is all I can muster. My tongue runs across my bottom lip, and I realize that I’ve been inching back, while Storm has been closing the space extending between us.
