Page 67 of The Bad Brother

Me: No. I’ll meet you at the club at 2 like we planned. I have a shift at the hospital, remember?

Even though I shouldn’t be, I’m surprised when my mother texts me back almost immediately.

Mom: No, you don’t. Your boss assured me you’d have the entire day off.

Shit.

Before I can argue, she sends a follow up text.

Mom: Just give me this, Sloane. Your father and I are worried about you. We don’t even know where you’re living.

Mark isn’t my father and he doesn’t care where I’m living, as long as it’s not in his house. Instead of pointingeither of those facts out, I tap out the most civilized answer I can muster.

Me: Fine. We can go shopping after lunch, but I neither want or need your driver to pick me up. I’m meeting you at the club. See you at 2.

The absolute last thing I need is my mother showing up here so she can wrinkle her nose while she looks around the bar and says,you live here?Here—above a bar, Sloane? You can’t be serious.

Turning my phone off without bothering to wait for her reply, I toss my phone on the bed. Standing on slightly wobbly legs, I tug the covers up in a half-hearted attempt at making the bed before making my way to the closet. It doesn’t take long to decide what I’m going to wear. As much as I’d love to, if I showed up at the club for lunch in a pair of leggings and an over-sized T-shirt, my mother would have a nervous breakdown. That leaves either a set of hospital scrubs or one of the two dresses I still own—a white cotton Dolce and Gabbana with black polka dots and a neckline that is way too modest for Amy’s taste (which is probably why I found it wadded up and shoved in one of the boxes Ethan left in my car), and the white strapless Dior with gold embroidery that I was wearing when I got called away from our engagement party.

Since it’s taking everything I have not to throw the Dior in the fireplace and strike a match, that leaves me the Dolce. Pulling it off its hanger, I toss it onto the bed, along with my only pair of heels before heading for the bathroom. There, I brush my hair before pulling it away from my face andsecuring it with a clip I found in the bottom of my purse. Next is make-up. I don’t generally wear a lot of it but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t salty over my red Chanel lipstick that was undoubtedly commandeered by Amy, just like the rest of my pricier belongings.

Making do with the mascara and nude lipstick I was using for touch-ups, the night of the engagement party, I finally call myself ready and get dressed. Adding the diamond studs my mother gave me for my 21st birthday, and the Tiffany bracelet, I check the time.

It’s after one o’clock.

If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.

On impulse, I open the drawer on the nightstand and grab a handful of Atomic Warheads and stuff them into the pocket of my dress.

Just in case.

Heading downstairs, I step into a Barrett’s I’ve never seen before. The church ladies are long gone and the brightly lit bar is doing a brisk business, serving lunch along with ice cold longnecks and pitchers of sweet tea. Through the open back door, I can see people playing cornhole and hear the metal clang of horseshoes, mingled with the sounds of music and people laughing.

“Well damn, Doc—you clean up good.”

Turning around, I offer Sera a smile while she skirts past me with a tray full of fragrant fried foods and a pitcher of margaritas. “Thanks,” I say as I watch her walk past me and disappear through the open door.

If you don’t leave now, you’ll spend the entire salad course listening to your mother make vague, passive aggressive remarks about how rude it is to keep people waiting.

Stepping away from the staircase, I head for the bar, expecting to find Jensen so I can say goodbye and possibly talk him into kissing me some more—and that’s exactly where I find him. Standing on the other side of the bar, talking to and smiling at who might be one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen in my life. Bouncy blonde ponytail. Big, hazel eyes. Honest to god freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her perfectly-shaped nose. The sort of curves that would make a lesser woman feel like a twelve-year-old boy.

Right now, I am the textbook definition of alesser woman.

Tearing my gaze away from the pair of them, I turn to find Cade, right where he always seems to be—behind the bar with an asshole smirk on his face. “Where you going, all dressed up?” he asks before shooting a quick, knowing glance in Jensen’s direction.

“Lunch at the club,” I answer him, instantly regretting it because of how snotty and privileged I sound. “With my mother—she called my boss. It’s either lunch with her or get fired.” Not sure the explanation makes it sound any better, I shoot a quick look at Jensen. He’s noticed me by now. I know he has—I’m standing in the middle of his bar in a three-thousand-dollar dress—but he makes no attempt to end his conversation with the gorgeous blonde. Matter of fact, he’s doing everything in his power to ignore me. After last night, I can’t decide if I’m hurt or just plain angry.

Dropping my black Dior clutch on the bar, I decide I’m going to be a little late and my mother is just going to have to deal with it. “I’d like a shot of tequila, please.”

Shooting Jensen a quick look, Cade gives me a frown. “I don’t thinkthat’s?—”

“Don’t look at him,” I say, my cheeks stung red with temper. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need his permission to order a drink and you don’t need his permission to serve it to me.”

“Well, actually—” My tone tightens the hinge on Cade’s jaw but he keeps his even when he answers me. “since it’shisbar?—”

“No worries, Doc,” Sera says, coming out of nowhere to push her brother out of her way so she can pull a shot glass from the rack under the bar. “I got you.” Salting the rim, she stretches up to pull a beautiful blue and white bottle off the very top shelf. Leveling the bottle over the shot glass she fills it to the top with tequila before sliding it to me across the bar. “Lime?”

I would very much like lime but I shake my head no, acutely aware that nearly everybody in the bar is staring at me. Judging my expensive dress and ridiculous heels. Wondering the doorknob-sized diamonds stuck in my ears are real. If the bracelet I’m wearing is a cheap knock-off or the real deal. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to bolt out the door and never come back. Because each and every one of them is thinking the same thing.

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