Crushed (21 page)

Today is one of those days where the stars have aligned.

My hair looks like . . . well . . . Kristin’s.

Devon reaches out a hand as though to touch it, but catches himself and drops his hand. I want to tell him that he can go ahead, but then I catch myself.

“You look like a different person with your hair straight,” he says.

I take a sip of my drink. “I look like my sister.”

The easy expression on his face fades, but I don’t regret that I went there. We’ve got to at some point.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says.

I’m dying to ask if he likes my hair like this, or if he likes it all curly and crazy.

Somehow the answer is important.

But the admiring glance he gave me when he first walked up to the bar answers that question.

I should have figured.

Maybe it’s because he’s been Kristin’s guy for so long, but I just can’t picture Devon Patterson with a girl with crazy curls. He’s totally the type to have the shiny-haired girl with freaking headbands, maybe a sleek bob as she gets older, with tasteful highlights, until she reaches the age where she can gracefully let it evolve into a sleek silver tidiness.

I can be that girl.

I mean, it’ll take all the product and the hottest of flat irons on the market, but I can make it work.

But do I want to?

I ignore the annoying little girl-power part of my brain, because
hello,
Devon is here with me. Looking at me. Attention on
me
.

And I try to focus on him. I do. I listen as he tells me about how his law textbooks are crazy expensive, and I listen as he talks about how he’s decided to rent an off-campus apartment, and how his parents have been walking on eggshells around him since the breakup with Kristin.

But although I try to keep my eyes on Devon’s familiar, handsome face, and I totally appreciate the way his blue button-down brings out the blue of his eyes, and I like that he’s let his hair grow out just a little bit longer . . .

My eyes keep shifting toward the other side of the bar and Michael.

He hasn’t smiled once. Not for the two stunning brunettes on the other side of the bar, not for the big-breasted blonde who wandered over and tried to coax him into taking a tequila shot with her. Not for his fellow bartender, who, from what I can tell, is about as friendly a guy as ever existed.

Something’s wrong.

I mean, something’s always wrong with Beefcake. That something, I now know, being the not-so-minor detail that he found out his father wasn’t his father, and that his real father doesn’t know he exists.

But something is even more wrong today. Instead of being merely tense, he’s tightly wound, and his eyes when he glances in our direction lack the bored disinterest I’d expect.

His eyes are hot. Angry. A little wild.

And, suddenly, I’m angry. Angry at his situation, but mostly angry at him for not
doing
anything about his situation.

From the day we met, Michael’s been all up in my business about my confidence, and taking control of my life, and going after what I want.

And here he is, pulling beers for a living when he went to NYU, tracking down his biological father only to stand on the sidelines, and, now, serving up gin and tonics to his half brother without even a flicker of recognition.

Or courage.

Or soul.

“Hey, you okay?” Devon touches my hand, and I jump.

“What?”

His smile is soft. “You seem distracted.”

I open my mouth, ready with a lie . . . but I’m tired of lying to Devon. I’ve been lying to him for years. About how I feel about him. About how he and Kristin are great together.

And since I can’t come all the way clean about that—not yet—I figure I owe him at least this one small truth.

“I am a little,” I admit, fishing the last cherry out of my drink.

He frowns, leaning a little closer. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes flick to Michael, and I feel the unfamiliar sensation of guilt. Guilt that I have this big, fat secret that’s not mine to tell.

But also guilt because just a couple weeks ago, I was lying beneath Michael, squirmy, half-naked, and begging.

Would Devon even care?

He shouldn’t.

Not after he and Kristin apparently had had a rather epic sex life. At least according to her.

He bumps his knee against mine. “Chloe?”

“What are we doing here, Devon?”

I suck in a breath as soon as I ask the question. So not what I’d meant to say.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Why’d you ask me out to drinks? The lunch the other day . . . okay, I get it. You needed to talk. But this is twice in one week.”

His laugh is nervous, and he fiddles with his glass, which is now just ice. “We’re friends, Chloe.”

“We’ve been
friends
for over a decade. We’ve never done anything
just us.
”

His eyes are locked on his glass, which he spins around and around on the chipped wood bar. He looks so lost that I nearly back off and give him a break.

Then Devon lifts his gaze and looks at me. “I leave in two weeks, Chloe.”

It’s my turn to frown. “I know that.”

His blue eyes are steady on mine “Do you?”

What’s going on here?

“Yeah, I do,” I snap. “In case you’ve forgotten,
I’m
the one you’ve confided in all these years.
I’m
the one who knows you’ve always wanted to be a lawyer, because you apparently forgot to mention that little fact to your parents and
girlfriend
until recently.”

He studies my face, as though trying to figure out what I’m getting at. “Is that a problem?”

I press my lips together before pursing them as I try to get my thoughts in order, and his eyes watch my mouth.

This is so . . . confusing.

“I didn’t tell Kristin that we’ve been talking.”

Devon closes his eyes for a moment as he shakes his head. “I’m getting whiplash in this conversation, Chloe. You want to know why I asked you to grab a drink, then you’re asking why I told you about law school, and now you’re talking about my ex-girlfriend.”

“Who’s my sister!” The guy behind Devon turns and gives me a look, but thankfully the rest of the bar is too noisy for anyone else to notice us.

Devon’s jaw shifts, and I can’t tell if it’s out of guilt or annoyance.

“You don’t need to feel guilty. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Okay, then.” I tip my glass back and dump some ice into my mouth, which I chomp, irritably.

“Look, Chloe,” Devon’s voice is softer. “If you feel weird about this, we can call it a night.”

“Nope, I’m good,” I say, giving him a bright smile. “Like you said, nothing to feel guilty about. Kristin knows there’s no
way
Devon Patterson would be on a date with Chloe Bellamy.”

I turn my head so I don’t have to watch his facial expressions confirm this, and burn a hole in Beefcake’s profile.

Apparently he senses my gaze—maybe because it’s more of a death-beam stare—and turns his head to meet my eyes. I lift my glass and he lifts an eyebrow.

I make a bug-eyed
now
face, and he rolls his eyes before ambling toward us.

“Another round?” he asks, his eyes flicking between Devon and me.

“Yes, please,” Devon says, just as I say,
“Obviously.”

The guy next to me finally clears out, and Devon nabs the open bar stool, putting some much-needed space between us.

“Hey, Chloe—”

I ignore Devon, focusing all my attention on Michael as he returns with our drinks.

“Question for you, St. Claire,” I say, taking three large gulps of the drink he’s just set down. He drops his eyes meaningfully to the already half-empty glass.

“Save it,” I say with a wave. “I can get a ride home if I need it. So my question—”

“No, thanks.” He starts to move away, but I reach across the bar, snagging his wrist.

He freezes, his eyes flying to mine, and I can’t be 100 percent sure, what with the sudden influx of gin muddling my brain and the fact that I won’t actually look at Devon, but I’m pretty sure Devon’s eyes are lasering in on where I’m touching Michael.

Michael tugs his hand free and looks at me warily. “What?”

“You look all pissy and hostile tonight,” I say. “What gives?”

His eyes flatten in irritation. “I’m working. Sorry I don’t have time for my usual party tricks.”

I make a buzzing noise like he’s made an error. “Nope. Not good enough. What’s up?” I lean forward. “
Family
troubles?”

If his face was wary before, it’s downright stony now. I expect him to storm away, but he surprises me by leaning in, his face inches from mine.

“I don’t think I’m the only one with a bug up my butt today, Chloe. What’s gotten into you?
Relationship
troubles?”

My eyes narrow.
You wouldn’t dare.

His eyes narrow back.
Push me, and I might.

I fish a cherry out of my drink, popping it into my mouth without ever breaking Michael’s gaze. Then I push my unfinished drink away. I’m already feeling itchy and reckless. The last thing I need is to allow any more alcohol to let my guard down.

“You know what, boys? I think I’m going to go.”

I grab my purse and stand, finally breaking eye contact with Beefcake.

“Hey, you sure?” Devon asks. “Is everything okay, because I feel like we—”

“Devon,” I lean forward and kiss his cheek, keeping it as breezy and sisterly as possible. “We’re good. I’ve just got somewhere to be.”

He looks surprised. “Yeah? Someone you had to dress up for?”

I dressed up for you, dumbass.

But I put a hand to my collarbone, my fingers toying with the little diamond pendant my parents got me for high school graduation. “Oh, gosh, Devon . . . is this okay? When you suggested meeting for a drink, I didn’t know you meant an all-night—”

“No,” he says quickly. “We’re cool. Have fun on your . . . date?”

Somehow I manage to wink, even though I’m pretty sure I just heard Michael snort. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

I definitely don’t miss the way Michael manages to sneak
horseshit
into a sudden coughing fit.

“Hey, you know what?” I say, snapping my eyes around to him before pushing my purse strap over my shoulder. “You guys should talk. I bet you have
lots
in common.”

And then I walk away.

I walk away from the guy I’ve loved since puberty.

And I walk away from the other guy who I . . .

Huh
. When it comes to my thoughts on Michael St. Claire?

I’ve got nothin’.

Chapter 23

Michael

I don’t bother to disguise the fact that I watch Chloe as she walks away.

Whaddya know? When Chloe Bellamy goes full-on
train wreck,
she’s actually pretty damn hot.

Except I’m not digging the straight hair. I had the weirdest urge to muss it into its usual state of craziness all night.

Most especially when she sat there all prim and proper with Devon fucking Patterson.

My eyes swing around to see that he, too, is watching Chloe.

And from the thoughtful, admiring look on his face, I take it that he
does
like her hair all smooth and boring.

Asshole.

He lets out a little laugh and shakes his head as he reaches for her half-finished drink and dumps it into his. Then he points in the direction she just left. “You’re friends with her, right?”

“Sure,” I mutter.

“Any idea what the hell just happened?” he asks good-naturedly.

I’ve got a pretty damn good idea. I’m guessing from the low-cut shirt, sexy makeup, and socialite hairdo that Devon had suggested drinks with an old
friend
because he’s a bored, oblivious moron, whereas Chloe had thought she was finally getting her chance.

And the thing is, I don’t thinks she’s wrong. I see the way he looks at her. Talks to her.

But he played the chickenshit card tonight. Let her walk away when he should have pinned her against the wall and kissed her.

I feel fury rush to my knuckles at the thought. I push it away.

“No clue,” I say, grabbing a bar rag and wiping the newly vacated spot at the bar. “You’re the one who’s been
friends
with her forever.”

He takes a sip of his drink. “Never seen her act like that, though. Never seen her
look
like that, either.”

My fingers clench on the rag.

He takes another sip of his drink, watching me. I should definitely be getting back to my other customers, but for some reason, I stay.

“What’d she mean, we have a lot in common?” he asks.

I tense, even though his voice is merely curious, maybe a little bit amused.

Actually, brother, I think what she was referring to was D N fucking A.

I don’t say it. Obviously. It’s not the right time. Not even close.

And then it hits me.

Holy fuck,
it hits me.
There is
never
going to be a right time.

There’s never going to be a good time to tell a guy you hardly know that you’re his brother.

Never a good time to tell a man with a loving family that he knocked up a married woman a quarter century ago.

I toss my rag on the counter. “Hey, Blake,” I call. “I need to step out for a minute.”

“Um, sure,” he says, giving a slightly frazzled look at the ever-increasing crowd.

“I’ll be fast.”

I’m pretty sure this conversation won’t last long.

Then I shift my attention back to Devon. “Got a sec?”

He laughs. “What?”

“Two minutes,” I say.

His laugh fades as he studies my expression. And although he still looks puzzled, he finally shrugs. “All right.”

I head toward the front door, since the back door is for staff only and that area chronically smells like trash.

Once outside, I don’t bother to make sure he’s following; I merely walk toward my car at the edge of the parking lot.

I hear Devon whistle behind me. “Holy shit. This yours?”

I smile a little. Having someone ogle my baby never gets old. “Yup.”

“Jaguar F-TYPE.”