Page 3 of Holiday Scars
I read the text.
Then read itagain.
Bro, you need to talk to Blade this weekend. Stavros left him and now he’s fucking some strange dude in the bathroom at Battery. I’m leaving or I might just kill the dude. Then beg Blade to fuck me instead.
Bro—the text was meant for Dirk.
The words on my screen blur before they turn into a gut punch. He’s talking about me, what he saw, what he felt watching me in that bathroom. Watching mewithsomeone else. His tone is raw, his feelings messy, dripping with angst.
For me?
I drop the phone on my dresser, like if I read it again, it will explode. I’ve watched too manyMission Impossiblemovies.
I scrub a hand down my face, feeling lightheaded. Like nowIneed some mouth-to-mouth. Shame burns hot behind my ribs. Not because Jett watched me. But because ofhowit made him feel.
Sounds as if Jett has feelings for me that are driving him crazy.
I pace inside this empty apartment without realizing I’m moving. My pulse won’t slow.
I should be embarrassed. I am. But underneath that, something else stirs. Something that’s been there for a long time, quiet and wrong, but growing anyway.
I can’t have what I really want.
Jett.
My best friend’s little brother. My partner on the enforcer unit for Quinlan Empire, the Irish Mob in Lower Manhattan. A line I’m not supposed to evenlookat, let alone cross. Yet, every time his stare lingers too long, it does something to me I can’t explain.
And apparently, he’s been feeling the same way. But since when?
Jett is tall and lean, with quiet strength, built by a childhood of abuse. I don’t mind the scars underneath. Dirk once hinted at what he and Jett went through in the foster system. Things that made my old man’s drunken fists and empty fridge feel almost merciful.
Whatever happened to them, it carved something deep in Jett. And I’ve never known how to touch those scars without making him think it makes him look weak.
My phone buzzes again with another text, and I’m almost afraid to look at it. But I do and cringe seeing Dirk, like maybe Jett figured out he sent the text to me and then forwarded it to his brother. And I’m about to get a talking-to at three fucking a.m.
Dirk: Be ready by eight a.m. Roads are gonna be slick on the mountain.
I breathe in relief that he’s talking about our trip this weekend. Every year, the three of us head north for our annual Thanksgiving weekend getaway. We make a show of it, brag about the cabin, the lake, and the fresh mountain air so our friends don’t offer pity dinner invites. With no family, we have each other. I look forward to the long weekend of hunting, good booze, and video games until our eyes burn. All while pretending we’re not battling inner demons and hiding scars of our past.
The thought of being around Jett after his confession text makes my pulse stumble. Being trapped in a cabin for the weekend with him has me packing extra anxiety medication.
I almost call Dirk and tell him I can’t make it.Pretend I’m too busy. Too tired. Too anything.
But I need the break and to get out of this apartment I shared with Stavros. He left two weeks ago, and the silence has been deafening. The place still smells like him, too. Cedar soap and the ghost of something I can’t wash away, no matter how many times I spray the place with Lysol.
The lease renews in January, but the scum bag landlord is doubling the rent. Stavros used that as an excuse, that, and he needed a break. From me. From us.
I really need to see if Jett will say anything. Admit something. Open the fuck up and finally tell me what all those stares mean.
I shove the worry down and take that damn shower. After, I open my closet and pull down a duffel, tossing it on the bed that’s too big for one person. And yet, I can picture Jett lounging in it, scrolling on his phone, like he does when we share a room on the road.
And a bed.
Because when you check into a motel at two a.m., sometimes that’s what’s available.
My phone lights up again on the dresser. I don’t look. Not yet. I can’t re-read the message Jett hasn’t unsent.
Then it goes off again, and this time, I look. It’s Trace Quinlan, the enforcer I work for, so I pick it up.
