Page 3 of Risky Taste
It’s not even a thought as I grab the whiskey straight from his hand and throw it against the opposite wall, the glass shattering, amber liquid splattering against the pristine white. My chest heaves, my hands shaking with the force of my anger, my disgust, my fucking hatred for the man who still thinks he can control me.
“Fuck you,” I bite out. “Are you really that fucking daft? You know what I’ve gone through. And for you to bring that shit in here, thinking a few glasses of poison would help me, is ridiculous.”
Heath’s expression hardens, his polished exterior cracking at the edges. For the first time since he walked in, he doesn’t look like the untouchable businessman. He looks like the entitled, manipulative bastard I wasted too many years on. Heath’s lips turn up in a snarl before he lunges, shoving me back against my desk, his hand around my throat before I can react. His fingers press in, just enough to remind me of the times I let him do this without a fight.
But this isn’t three years ago. I am no longer Kurt’s lean little brother, easy to throw around, easy to intimidate. Days spent in the gym fighting against the demons in my head have served me well. I grab his wrist, prying his fingers off my throat with ease, twisting just enough to make him hiss in pain.
And then I push him back, not hard enough to throw him off balance, but enough to make my point. “Touch me one more time, and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”
Heath’s throat bobs as he swallows, his pulse jumping at his neck.
“Now get out of my damn office. Unless you’re going to sign the divorce papers or you have a medical emergency. And if that’s the case, I’m sure one of the many doctors down the hall would be happy to help you.”
He stays for a moment longer, weighing his options before exiting, not taking the papers that are now strewn across the floor. I plop into my desk chair, dropping my head back with a growl of frustration. His little appearances have been more and more frequent in the last several months, the man holding onto a dead relationship. I let my gaze drift, needing something to ground me, anything to pull me out of my own head. My eyesland on the framed photo sitting at the edge of my cluttered desk, the one I haven’t moved in years.
Kurt and his buddies.
The only real connection I ever had to my brother, the only thing that made me feel like I was still part of his life, even when he didn’t bother checking in. He sent one every year, like some kind of obligation. A small thread between us, but a thread nonetheless.
I reach for the frame, rubbing my thumb over the glass. They all look so damn happy, their grins wide, arms slung around each other’s shoulders like nothing in the world could touch them. The same carefree bullshit that made Kurt so easy to admire, to hate, to resent.
I scan the familiar faces, recognizing three of them instantly. Sebastian, of course, standing slightly off-center, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And then there are two others I vaguely remember from college—Logan and Declan.
There had been a crazy night or two, a few reckless decisions I was never going to bring up again, even if they still made my face burn and my dick twitch in my pants. Declan had been the first to push me up against the wall of some shitty college bar, fingers gripping my hips, mouth rough against mine, his teeth scraping against my jaw before Logan’s amused voice had broken through the haze.
Waking up between them had spurred on fantasies we never indulged, Kurt always just around the corner. We were in a fraternity together, but I wasjustthe baby brother. And yet, for a moment I wasn’t. Just like with Sebastian, I was more than that.
Returning the picture to my desk, I glance at the clock, frowning at the time. Ronny was supposed to swing by an hour ago. My partner in crime and best friend ever since Heath and I split.
I struggled with alcohol and he struggled with his self-worth, both of us battling demons that never quite left. We held each other together when it mattered, kept each other from slipping too far into the abyss. But just because we fought through it didn’t mean we won.
We had been healing and suffering in equal measure, dragging each other out of dark places when no one else would. That didn’t mean every time he didn’t answer the phone, I wasn’t sitting on the edge of my fucking seat, wondering if something had happened.
Wondering if this was the time he didn’t make it back out.
I sit up, reaching for my phone, already knowing his contact is one of the first in my recent calls. He always swipes though, even if it’s just a quick "Hey, let’s grab lunch" or "Let’s make plans for the weekend". It’s routine. Consistent. A reminder to stay in the present.
But right now? No texts. No missed calls. Nothing. I press his name, bringing the phone to my ear. It rings, once, twice—voicemail.
Not immediately, but long enough that he should’ve picked up.
I try again. The longer it rings, the more unease coils in my gut. The sharp, bitter kind that never leads to anything good. Voicemail.
I swallow hard, shifting in my chair, gripping my phone just a little tighter. My jaw tightens as I press call again, pushing out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. "Come on, Ronny," I mutter under my breath. "Pick up."
Nothing.
A sick feeling lodges itself deep in my chest, like ice crawling through my veins. It’s irrational—I know that. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he got distracted, forgot to check the time.
But I know him, and Ronny never forgets.
***
It’s been exactly thirty-six minutes since I last called Ronny’s phone, a total of two hours since he should have been here. I can’t focus, can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong even though I keep telling myself otherwise. One of the guys passed through for a quick check up and I moved through the motions, barely talking to him, my bedside manner leaving much to be desired.
But I can’t fucking wait any longer.
Waving the last patient off, I drag my phone out and dial Ronny again. No answer. So, I try his house like I have over the last hour, hoping and praying someone will pick up. He’s nearly thirty minutes outside the city, and I’m seconds away from jumping into the car to go check on him. But he’s living with his mother and the maid he grew up with.
