Page 6 of The Second Deal

TheappetiteIhad suddenly disappears.Istare at my half-full plate until another figure appears around the corner.

Adrian.

Seeingthe eldest of theRamostwins doesn’t help me breathe any easier.Especiallynot when he givesRobbiea death glare overMom’sshoulder as he hugs her.

Hisattention comes to me, and his jaw drops.

“Steph, what the hell are you doin’ here?”Adrianexclaims as he rushes towards me.Hesweeps me up into a hug that forces my arms around his neck to regain balance, butIgo rigid in his arms.Hisbody pressing against mine sends me reeling backwards.

Ichuckle uncomfortably under my breath.Hesmells like sweat and beer, and he’s more muscular thanIremember.

Adistant, buried memory appears, smelling of the same sweat and beer and an extra strong stench of pot, the same sound of crickets pounding in my head whenIrealized…

Iall but shove him away, saying, “Thoughtit was about timeIcame back home.”

“Yeah, now that you’re the big wig creative director forNYB, huh?”Heholds me by the shoulders, taking in the sight of me. “You’redifferent.”

Eyeballinghis low-fade black hair, gold nose ring, and the grayscale floral tattoo creeping up his neck from under his shirt,Ireply, “Soare you, mister.”

Beaming, his hands slip from my shoulders.Theylinger around mine for a moment before he clears his throat and releases. “Yeah, a bit.Maybeit wouldn’t be so drastic if you’d’ve stayed.”

Istare at him silently for an uncomfortable moment. “Gofix yourself a plate.”

Hestares back helplessly.Whenhe finally turns away andMomhands him a plate, he does a double take over his shoulder—Iguess making sureIhaven’t disappeared into thin air yet.

MomandBrandyflank either side of me at the end of the table, and even thoughIpick up my burger,I’mstill distracted, staring at the end of the patio and wondering if someone else will round the corner.

I’mso focused thatIjump whenMompats my arm.

“Brandy,Ibet you’re gladStephis finally home.”

“Yes!” she exclaims, nudging my shoulder roughly. “‘Bouttime, huh?”

Theguys settle at the table andMomcontinues, “Howwas your trip, anyway?Betyou’re glad to be out ofHotlanta.”

Asad smile tugs at the corners of my lips, but the unsureness of being back home in the middle of everyoneI’vedisappointed the most stops a response from me.

Theonly disappointmentIcreated inAtlantawas from tellingDaveIwas going back toNYBfull time andTyIwas coming back home toSanAntonio.

It’snot untilIclear thickening melancholy from my throat thatIcan say anything at all. “I’llmissWaffleHousesomethin’ awful, butIthink breakfast taco country is whereIbelong.”

Everyoneclamors all at once in rabid agreement—evenRobbieandAdrianagree.

Laughterbubbles out of me untilIcatch movement at the end of the patio, looking to meet a familiar, golden brown gaze.

Myheart sinks.

Thelast timeIsawZak, we were screaming at each other in the driveway—me telling himIquit the band and was moving, and him demanding thatIstay and talk things through.

Beforethat, he got down on one knee on stage atNewYear’sBallin front of a crowd of adoring fans.

AndItold him no.

Chapter3

Pain

–Dry Kill Logic

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