TWENTY-SEVEN
SHE’S RIGHT. SHE’S absolutely right. I had no business putting that on her.
There were few times in Alex DuMont’s life that he wanted to curl into a ball and cry, and that was one of them. Theresa was good. She was smart and funny and she deserved better than to be chided on her morals by someone who barely knew her. She almost certainly deserved someone better than him. He’d done nothing but plague her with his bullshit since they’d met, and as much as Alex hated ever admitting it, Sol was right. She was the most beautiful person he would ever lay eyes upon, in this life or maybe even the next. He’d be stupid to let that go.
So fight for her? Fight for a possibility of a future together?
The question was how. Alex wasn’t good at anything that required delicacy or nuance. It’s why he perpetually put his foot into his mouth; there was a reason Najmah handled 99 percent of The Diamond’s customer service complaints, and it was because she had a better filter. She knew how to process information and relay it in a pleasant way. Alex just . . . he wanted to do the right thing, but it took him longer to get there sometimes.
As far as he could tell, his best bet was to come up with a moral compromise he could live with. It wasn’t a line of thinking he’d ever indulged in the past, because as far as he understood it, his role as one of the faithful was simply to follow meekly where the Church led.
But all people had circumstances. And his circumstance was that he was falling passionately in love with a woman he’d just met.
Oh.
Oh, that explains some things.
Maybe it wasn’t love just yet, but on the possibility that it was the real deal, he had to figure it out quickly. Darren often joked that he did his best thinking while he was on the toilet. Alex, however, did his best thinking when he exorcised his demons . . . exercising.
But before feeding my soul, I have to feed myself.
With all of his worrying, he hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and he didn’t want to be sick for the wedding.
Ordering in it was, then, followed by The Seaside’s gym. He headed to Gustav’s, his gait brisk as he passed the maître d’ and approached the bar so he could order a salad. He could have gone to the kitchen and asked for one directly from the sous chefs, but Gustav was territorial about the place, and following standard protocols for food was the smartest course of action.
He sidled up to the end of the bar and flagged the bartender, who put up a hand to signal he’d be by as soon as possible. There were people milling about, other customers who needed attention, and Alex waved at him to do what he had to do. He didn’t like idling, but the business came first, and he drummed his fingers on the polished cherry wood to pass the time, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. His eyes drifted over the dining room, and when they swung over to the opposite side of the bar, he spotted three men staring at him. Richard Barrington, John Spencer, and another Barrington he’d yet to meet were grinning his way.
John lifted a hand in greeting. That hand was holding a scotch.
“Evening, DuMont,” he said, loud enough his voice cut through the din of the dinner rush.
“John, good to see you,” Alex called over the bar, cracking a smile despite the lead in his gut. He glanced at the bartender again, hopeful he was on his way to take his order, because Alex was in no condition for company, but it just wasn’t his day. Just like no one slipped in front of him to take confession, the bartender was still swamped.
Social it is, then.
Hell.
“That’s the best man,” he heard Richard say. The other Barrington brother, a barrel-chested creature with blond hair he’d slicked back, thick brows over blue eyes, and a mustache climbed off his barstool to saunter over.
“Alex. Heard all about you. Mitchell Barrington,” the man said in greeting, offering his hand.
Alex stared at him.
Mitchell smiled.
“No,” Alex said.
“Excuse me?”
“No.”
Mitchell was confused, and he looked back at his brother and Spencer, his brows so high they nearly grazed his widow’s peak. “What did I miss?”
Richard glanced Spencer’s way and sipped his drink. “I think he said no, Mitchell.”
“That’s what I heard, too,” Spencer agreed. “That was a very emphatic no.”
“Yes, but what are we no’ing?” Mitchell pressed.
Facing Mitchell Barrington made Alex angry. There was a part of him that recognized he’d had a bad day, was wrestling with a boatload of guilty feelings, and was probably looking for an excuse to take out his anger on someone else. Said excuse had presented itself quite handily. It stood a foot away from him, was just shy of six feet tall, was almost as wide as Alex himself, and seemed utterly bewildered.
And it had put its hands on Theresa.
“You’re an asshole!” Alex shouted, his fist pounding on the bar top. The strike was hard enough that it rattled the glasses on the wall. It was hard enough that the barkeep finally turned around, eyes big, to see what was happening. It was hard enough a passing waitress stopped, blinked, and darted for the front of the restaurant, likely to tell someone that trouble was brewing.
Mitchell stiffened at the insult. “Pardon me?”
“He said you’re an asshole,” Spencer offered helpfully.
“Definitely an asshole,” Richard echoed. “But let’s be real, we knew that, Mitchell.”
“I haven’t even met the man,” Mitchell sputtered.
“Your reputation precedes you.” Spencer grinned at Alex with a wink. “I think he might be seeing an old friend of yours.”
“Theresa,” Richard said. “He’s seeing Theresa.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Mitchell’s face screwed up, a flush spreading and turning his pale skin a dull red. It was hard to tell if it was anger or embarrassment, and in that moment, Alex didn’t much care either way.
He just . . . he just hated him. So much.
“That was a long time ago,” Mitchell said. “I’ve apologized. I will again if it’s necessary.” Behind him, Richard started laughing, and Mitchell whirled around to point at him, his finger stabbing the air. “Knock it off!”
Spencer jabbed his elbow into Richard’s side. “You’re making it worse.”
“I can’t help it,” Richard said, chuckling as he took another drink and waving the glass at his brother. “Mitchell looks so miserable.”
“And that’s funny to you?” Exasperated, Mitchell dismissed his brother and turned back to Alex. He locked his arms behind his back and notched up his chin. “I am sorry. It was completely inappr—”
“No,” Alex repeated, because anything else he would have said was incendiary, and incendiary could get violent, especially when his palms were sweaty and his heart pounded so hard he felt it in his ears.
I have to get out of here or I’ll hit him.
He sucked in a breath, offered a stiff nod to Spencer and Richard, and spun on his heel. Dinner could be ordered in—room service had to be better than looking into that smarmy face. Mitchell called his name, likely attempting one last extension of an olive branch, but Alex was having none of it.
He stormed from the restaurant.
He stormed down the hall.
He stormed straight into Darren Sanders.
“Hey, man. Hey. What’s up?” Darren reached out to grab Alex’s bicep. Alex flinched, but he didn’t pull away from his grip, either. How and why Darren was there wasn’t immediately evident, but a glance down the hall showed the waitress from Gustav’s leaving Sol’s office. Standing in the office doorway were Maddy and his brother, both peering at him owlishly.
The three of them were talking. The waitress ran in to relay what was going on. Darren heard I was involved and came to help.
Okay, okay.
Calm. Be calm.
Alex sucked in another breath.
“Mitchell,” Alex managed to say through gritted teeth, “is in the bar.”
“Okay, I have no idea who that is. Why don’t you fill me in, dude, eh?” Darren slung an arm around Alex’s shoulders and guided him toward one of the nearby conference rooms.
“Feel better, Alex!” Maddy called. “You’re far too handsome to be so murdery.”
Sol nodded. “She’s right. If you need anything, let us know. Oh, and if you do end up killing anyone—Mitchell, or Darren for trying to help you—do it on the tile in the foyer? We just got the carpets cleaned.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Alex snarled. Darren tutted and not-so-gently shoved him into a room and away from incendiary anythings, which included asshole older brothers. The door slammed shut behind them, Darren steering Alex into an overstuffed couch and shoving him down.
There were few people big enough or strong enough to manhandle Alex, but at six and a half feet tall and loaded with granite muscle, Darren was one of those people.
He sat next to him, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. He wore a short-sleeve checkered shirt over jeans and a pair of cowboy boots. The sun from the front windows blasted in, casting Darren’s hair bronze.
“What’s up, brother?”
“The man in the bar. Mitchell. He assaulted Theresa.”
Darren’s eyes widened. “Whoa, whoa. Assaulted?”
“He pinned her to the counter and wouldn’t let her go. It was awhile ago. Vaughan intervened before it got worse, but the idea of it—I just wanted to smash him in the face. I’m in a shit mood. He’s probably a scapegoat. I just—”
“No, no. I’d want to smash him in the face, too. I do want to smash him in the face. Theresa seems pretty nice, but even if she wasn’t, you don’t lay a hand on anyone who says no. I totally get it.” Darren reached out to clap Alex on the knee. “You did the right thing by walking away, though. I think beating the shit out of the bride’s brother would put a damper on things, justified or not.”
“I called him an asshole,” Alex admitted.
“Then he got off light.”
Alex frowned and looked down at the floor. Darren said nothing, letting Alex collect his thoughts. He knew the drill, knew that when Alex got heated, the best thing to do was to let him breathe it out.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
In. Out.
It took a few minutes, but he could feel his blood pressure easing off, the vestiges of his control rebuilding by the second. He sighed, slumping back on the couch. Unfurling his muscles was difficult, but he managed it to some degree; his lower back was tense from the strain and likely would be until he put heat on it.
The world’s hottest shower it is, then.
“Anything else going on?” Darren asked gently. “You said you were in a bad mood.”
Alex eyed him.
“I screwed it up with Theresa. I had this amazing chance, and I think I blew it,” he said simply.
Darren frowned. “For good? Or for a little while? Or . . .”
So Alex told him everything, from the start with the camera to the arguments in the car to the misunderstanding about him leaving her room after they slept together. He told him about how great it was being with her, and how he’d been riding high right up until he went to church and started thinking about all the ways they were flying in the face of the Church’s teachings. He told him about the talk in the hotel room and Theresa’s hard line.
And finally, he admitted in a low, pained voice that he could easily fall in love with her, and maybe had already started a little, which made the whole thing feel really tragic.
Darren smiled.
“I got a joke,” he said.
Considering Darren’s jokes were eye-roll worthy and awful, Alex made to get up off the couch and escape, but Darren reached for his chest and shoved him back with a cluck of his tongue. “It’s relevant, I promise.”
“How is a joke relevant to my existential crisis?” Alex demanded.
“Trust me. Okay, so this man, let’s call him Charlie, he goes to church every weekend and he prays. His family’s really broke, needs money to survive—food, medical bills. The whole deal. So Charlie, he kneels down before the altar and he prays real hard. ‘God, mighty God, I pray that I hit the lottery so that I can take care of my family.’ And he waits, hoping God heard him and he’ll win big, but come Friday night, the numbers are drawn, and Charlie doesn’t win. So the next week, Charlie does the same thing: gets down on his knees and prays real hard. ‘God, mighty God. I pray that I hit the lottery. My family’s bad off.’ And Friday night comes, and the lottery numbers are drawn, and Charlie doesn’t win. He’s really frustrated now, and sad, and scared for his family when he goes to church the third week, but wouldn’t you know it, he does the same thing again. ‘God, mighty God, may I hit the lottery? We’ll surely perish if we don’t.’ And do you know what happens?”
“I don’t know, what?” Alex said dryly, awaiting what would surely be an atrocious punch line.
“God comes down, looks Charlie in the eye, and screams, ‘You can’t win unless you buy a lottery ticket, asshole!’ ”
Alex didn’t laugh, but he did eye his friend. Darren offered him a half smile. “There’s only so much God’s going to do for you, my man. He helps those who help themselves. If you want this girl, if this is your shot, he sent her. You just gotta go get her, and then you gotta cling real hard, and if that means breaking a few rules? Well, I can’t think of a better reason than love.”