Page 2 of Risky Taste
“Where’s my brother?” I ask, trying not to sound as exhausted as I feel. “Why isn’t he calling?” I push off the door and start heading toward the clinic, counting the cracks as I pass them. There’s a new one just off to the side that I catalog before realizing that Sebastian hasn’t answered me.
There’s laughter in the background, a very deep, hearty voice that doesn’t surprise me. Kurt is being himself, not caring about a thing in the world except for him. I’m not sure why I thought things would change after three years apart. He’s the same brother he’s always been—larger than life, loud, too much for most people to handle, and yet somehow loved for it.
And he doesn’t think about the smaller things. The finer details like checking in on his brother. Not that I need him to. I don’t. It’s just… it would be nice. To get this call from Kurt and not Sebastian.
Not that I don’t want to hear Sebastian’s voice.
Sebastian chuckles. “Babe, he’s doing Kurt things,” he says, voice rich with amusement. “Currently bothering our driver. I just know how much you despise surprises so I thought I’d give you a heads up.”
This man is too precious. He knows every little thing about me, every quirk, every want, need, desire… and he never forgets them. He catalogs them away like I do the cracks in the concrete. Three years ago, just before I married Heath, I had been on my own mission before everything went south and I was sent home to work at the clinic.
Everything had become too loud, too much—my brother said I hadn’t been ready, that rushing off to follow in his footsteps had done me more harm than good. Yet another instance of the world revolving around him.
A heavy sigh falls from my lips before I remember I’m on the phone, horrified that Sebastian is seeing this side of me.
“Missed you,” Sebastian muses.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, shifting the phone against my ear. “Missed you too,” I mumble, barely above a whisper.
I hate the way my chest aches for a man I haven’t touched in three years. He’s always been on my mind, always lingering in the back of my thoughts, the idea that if we had become something more…
No. Not possible.I clear my throat and quickly say goodbye, not wanting to drag the conversation out any further. “I have to go,” I say quickly, already pulling away from whatever this moment is.
“Noah,” he starts, but I cut him off before he can say whatever it is he’s about to say that might make this worse.
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing myself to sound lighter, forcing myself to make this casual. “It’ll be good to have some noise in the house. I’ll see you in a few hours.” I barely give him a second to respond before I end the call. I have until this afternoon to figure out how to greet Sebastian without completely falling apart.
I head into the clinic, managing a few hellos before slipping into one of the offices at the back that I claimed as mine. Set far away from patient rooms, it gives me peace and quiet when I so desperately need it. A place to escape from my reality and the chaos in my head.
My phone buzzes again, my shoulders falling. If it’s Sebastian again, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to him. No doubt he knows something is wrong at this point, but it’d be selfish on my part to unload on the one man who’s ever truly seenme.
And… it’s not him. It’s the bane of my existence. Heath Whitmore.
I decline the call. A few steps forward and my phone buzzes again. Decline.
This has been my life for almost two years now after we separated—Heath calling, showing up, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly why we fell apart. Pretending like he doesn’t remember all the times he tore me down, pushed me until there was nothing left of me but the shell of a man who drowned his sorrows in whiskey and mistakes.
It took everything to crawl out of that. Took help, took hard fucking lessons, took facing myself in the mirror and not recognizing the person looking back at me. And now that I’m finally back on the right track, Heath refuses to let go.
Because of course he does. The man I spent a year with, the man who was supposed to love me, the man who made me doubt my own worth—he doesn’t believe in letting things end on anyone’s terms but his own.
I grind my teeth as my phone rings again and the idea of chucking the device at the wall grows. But that would just add to everyone’s worry, that I need more help than I’m already getting. Ignoring Heath won’t do me any good so I answer it. “What do you want, Heath? I’m not in the mood to go round and round until you tell me we should just get back together or I should move back in.”
There’s a slight echo to my words and I pull the phone from my ear, staring at it for several seconds until I hear Heath’s voice. But his voice comes from behind me. I spin around and groan, the very man I’ve been trying to avoid these past few weeks currently crowding my space.
He looks posh as ever, wrapped in some sleek, tailored business suit that screams money and power, his hair slicked back, shoes so polished they probably cost more than my monthly salary. Everything about him is curated, an image he perfected over years of stepping on people to get where he is.
The problem is that there is absolutely no reason he should be here.
Heath tilts his head, that practiced smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey, I just thought…”
“Stop thinking.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t bother softening it. I don’t owe him anything. “This isn’t going to happen, Heath. We’re different people going in different directions and we figured that out years ago.” There might have been a few good weeks after the court wedding but that was it. Those memories aren’t as vivid as everything else he put me through.
I walk over to my desk, yanking open the drawer with more force than necessary. My fingers find the papers, the ones that should have ended this bullshit a long time ago. I turn, shoving them against Heath’s chest. “Sign the damn papers.”
He exhales dramatically, taking the stack from me, flipping through the pages lazily. Then, just as casually, he pulls something from his pocket. A small bottle of whiskey, the glass catching the light as he holds it up between us like a fucking peace offering. “Noah,” he purrs, that seductive voice I once fell for making an appearance. “We should sit and talk.”
I can’t fucking believe that Heath would bring that in here. He knows what I’ve gone through. He knows what I’ve fought against. And yet he stands there, dressed in his overpriced suit, holding out a bottle of the very thing I spent years dragging myself out of, as if a few drinks are the answer to whatever this is supposed to be.
