Page 10 of Courageous Hearts

“Don’t look,” Bridget says with a twist of her lips. “But he’s staring again.”

I glance over my shoulder, despite Bridget’s warning, and Jameson smiles our way before focusing back on his drink orders. There’s a cocktail shaker in his hand, and he mixes the contents expertly in some fancy rhythm while setting glasses in a row with his other hand.

Why is that so sexy? Multitasking gets me hot now, really?

Tearing my gaze away, I meet Bridget’s amused grin. “Well, you look great, so I’m not surprised,” I note.

Bridget is still wearing the dress from her final performance tonight, a low-cut thing that looks amazing on her curvy figure. The two of us decided to grab a drink after the show, and now we’re tucked away in a corner of Gertie’s, sitting at a tiny two-top table where it’s a little easier to hear one another speak.

Truth be told, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Jameson is interested in Bridget. She’s gorgeous and a lovely person, if not a little familiar at times. They’d make a great match. Probably have beautiful babies, too.

Not that I care.

Bridget gives me a strange look. “Bo, he’s not looking at m—”

“There you are,” Dee says, walking up and setting my phone down in front of me. “This thing kept going off while I was in the dressing room fixing my lipstick.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, picking up the device and looking at the three missed calls from Diesel.

Dee ruffles my hair affectionately before slipping away, and my phone resumes its ringing. Shit.

“I’m gonna take this,” I tell Bridget, standing up. She gives me a nod, although her face is scrunched in concern. Accepting the call, I hold the phone at my chest and head off down the hallway.

I debate my options for all of two seconds. I don’t want to go into the dressing room and have my conversation be overheard, but I’m not about to go out into the back alley in my makeup and heels. I guess that leaves the storage room.

Keying in the code, I slip inside, and the lingering chatter from the bar disappears.

“What is it?” I ask shortly, leaning against the door.

“Christ, Bobby. Couldn’t you at least try to sound happy to hear from me?”

Discomfort rolls down my spine at my own brother using my deadname, but I don’t bother correcting him. We’ve been down that road a hundred times or more, and nothing has changed. I don’t expect it to now.

“What d’you want, Diesel?” I ask, my wariness bleeding through my tone. I step over to a low stool in the corner of the room and take a seat, resting my back against a storage rack.

“To talk to you,” he says, his Texan accent as strong as ever. “I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t understand why,” I admit.

“What d’you mean? Of course I miss my brother. I haven’t seen you in two years.”

His brother. Right.

“Could you at least try?” I groan, even though I know it’s useless. I already feel defeated by this conversation. Every time I talk to Diesel, it’s a losing battle.

There’s a brief pause. “Try what?”

“To understand me? I’m not your brother, Diesel,” I say, my voice wobbling slightly.

“You’ll always be my brother,” he responds, sounding almost wounded, and while part of me truly believes Diesel means well, that he misses me, it doesn’t stop that word from dragging through me like sharp glass. It reminds me of the person I used to imitate. The one I never wanted to be.

To Diesel, I’m still Bobby, his younger brother. That’s all he can see—the façade I hid behind before coming out became as necessary to my very being as air.

Diesel only sees the brother he lost. He can’t see the life I gained.

“Every time you call me ‘brother,’” I say slowly, measuring my words, “it hurts. I’ve worked real hard acceptin’ who I am, but one word from you takes me right back to a place I don’t wanna be.”

“But you’re not a woman,” Diesel counters. “You told me that.”

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