Page 92 of Gorgeous

“This is beautiful,” Breck mumbles, running the pad of her finger along the driftwood furniture Anniston picked out.

“Anniston decorated,” I add. “And Theo and I—well mostly me—redid the floors and painted.”

Breck makes an amused sound at Theo’s lack of help and pokes her head into the bathroom, taking in the upgraded space with fresh paint and tile on the floors. “You guys did a great job. It looks like something out of a magazine.” I never thought about it like that, but yeah, I guess it does. “Do you mind if I freshen up?” She nods toward the bathroom.

“Sure. There are clean towels in the cabinet. Take your time. I’ll go get our bags.”

She stands on her toes, arching her back for a kiss. I indulge her, tasting the salty taste along her top lip. “Mmm … I take it back. Hurry.” I give her a little slap on the ass and she moans, disappearing behind the door while I head outside to get our bags.

Like most women, Breck takes forever in the shower. I’ve already retrieved our bags from the car and have been playing pool with Theo on an app on my phone. I’m winning and I know it’s killing him. He sinks the eight ball and ends the game. I’m typing out a text to rub it in when a buzzing sounds from Breck’s overnight bag.

It’s got to be her phone. Should I answer? What if it’s Sue?

The buzzing starts up again. I’ll just get it and take it to her.

Unzipping her bag and rooting around way too many clothes for a weekend, I finally locate her phone and pull it out, a necklace wound around it.

I bring the phone up to eye level and unwind the necklace. It’s not a necklace.

It’s dog tags.

I’m frozen, my body literally locked in one position when Breck opens the bathroom door, steam billowing out behind her like stage art. “Sorry I took so long—”

She gasps at the sight of me, the air whooshing from her lungs. I’m crouched over her bag, Bennett’s dog tags clutched in my hands.

“Your phone was ringing,” I mutter in a low, robotic tone. She looks confused for a moment like my statement wasn’t what she was expecting. Should I have said his full name? Called out his birthday? His blood type? Did she think I wouldn’t recognize his name? Everything about this kid is ingrained in me.

I was his brother.

His superior.

I held his hand as the life drained from his eyes.

My forearm tenses, thinking about his face, the last time I saw him, bloody and trying to smile through the pain. Through the fear. He was staying strong. For me.

I haul off and punch Breck’s overnight bag with a sound that is almost animalistic. Rage is coursing through my veins, and my heart pounds in my ears, deafening any other sounds. My chest heaves like I’m suffocating but that can’t be true.

Another sound escapes my chest. It sounds like I’ve been possessed by a demon. I raise my head slowly, my lip twitching into a snarl when Breck takes a cautious step toward the front door.

The movement snaps me out of the rage. I spring to my feet like I weigh nothing. Hell, I can’t even feel my legs—the endorphins have taken over. “You’re a liar, Brecklyn Brannon,” I grit out, taking a calculated step toward her.

A cry bubbles out of her throat and I want so bad to go to her but I don’t. She’s a traitor.

“I’m not a liar,” she pleads, her eyes searching my cold, closed off ones. “I was going to tell you. Please let me explain.”

My head goes back and an evil sounding laugh erupts out of me. “So you wanted to confront your brother’s killer. Is that it?”

I don’t give her the chance to explain. Instead, I take another step toward her so we’re toe to toe. “Well, here I am, sweetheart. Let me make it easy for you.”

Tears are streaking down her face at a rapid pace, but she can’t seem to form any words when I produce a knife from my pocket. I press the button and it makes a clicking sound when it extends.

Breck cries out, the words garbled. “Cade,” she pleads with me, her small hands reaching for me.

My face is blank, detached even, when I grab her wrist and place her hand around the handle, pushing the blade against my neck. Her hands tremble beneath mine and it only makes me increase the pressure, driving the knife farther into my neck.

“Please don’t do this,” she begs, trying to break my hold. But I’m stronger, and I increase the pressure until I feel the sting of the blade breaking skin.

“Stop this!” the girl who just made love to me in the car demands.

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