Chapter Two

Brayden

“Look, man,” I say, “in the long run, you're going to be better off. She wasn't good for you, Trey.”

My best friend looks at me and downs the shot of bourbon in his glass. His eyes are red and rheumy, a look of misery etched upon his face. Trey sniffs loudly and slams his glass down on the bar, drawing the attention of a few of the people sitting around us.

“I loved her, man,” he says.

I nod and pat him on the shoulder. “I know you did, man.”

We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge, a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering hole. The music is kept low enough that you don't have to shout to be heard, and the flat panel televisions showing highlights from various games are kept on mute.

The Yellow Rose is a lounge that caters to business professionals and people who want to have a quiet drink, a mellow conversation, or be alone with their thoughts. There are plenty of bars in Austin that cater to the hellraisers and I've been known to patronize those places now and then.

But, it's also nice to have a place like the Yellow Rose for times when I need some quiet solitude. Or, when I need help nursing a friend through a bad, bitter breakup. The bartender pours Trey another shot – which he immediately downs.

“Might as well leave the bottle,” I say.

The bartender pauses and gives me a considering look, knowing he shouldn't leave a bottle with customers. I think it's a law or something. Reaching into my pocket, I drop a couple of hundreds down on the bar, which seems to relieve him of his inner-conflict. He quickly scoops up the cash, sets the bottle down, and strolls down to the other end of the bar.

I pour Trey another shot, which he downs almost instantly and then holds his glass up for another. Not wanting to see him pass out or die from alcohol poisoning, I know I need to pace him. I set the bottle back down on the bar in front of me and turn to my friend.

“I know you can't see it now, but this is a good thing, man,” I say. “You have your freedom back. You're young, good looking, have a great job – just think about how much pussy you're going to get.”

“I don't want pussy,” he moans. “I want Stephanie back.”

I groan inwardly. Stephanie is a terrible human being. I haven't liked her since they first started dating back when we were all going to Stanford together. She was always too pretentious and condescending for my liking. Always looked down on people and seemed to think that she was better than everyone else.

No, Stephanie and I never got on well at all. I know that it’s always bugged Trey, but some people just don't click. I never went out of my way to be an asshole to her – at least, not usually. But, I was never overly-friendly to her either. I have a hard time making nice with somebody I despise.

Truthfully, I want to do fucking cartwheels and throw a party now that she's out of Trey's life. I genuinely think he'll be better off without her. And that he'll find a much better woman. I pour out another shot – a smaller amount this time – and Trey pounds it down, slamming his shot glass onto the bar again.

“I really thought she was the one, man,” he says, sniffing loudly.

“Yeah, well, I don't want to be an asshole,” I say, “but you usually aren't going to find the ‘one’ down on her knees sucking some other guy off in your house.”

I feel bad for slapping Trey with such a hard dose of reality, but he needs it. Stephanie is about as close to the one for him as I am. I tried telling him that back in college. I've always suspected she had a side piece, but I couldn't ever prove it. And mentioning it to Trey was as useful as talking to a brick wall about it. All he ever saw in Stephanie was the good. Or at least, what he perceived to be good. But really, there is not much that's good about that woman.

Personally, I'm glad that he went home early that day to surprise her. I’m glad he walked in on her with that guy's dick in her mouth. Seeing that firsthand, as much as I’m sure it was painful, was about the only thing that could pull off the rose-colored glasses he's always seen Stephanie through. Receiving that cold slap of visual proof of what a conniving, backstabbing bitch she truly was – is the only thing that could pry him away from her.

At last, he got to see her for the selfish, gold-digger I've always known her to be. I just hate that Trey is hurting so badly because of it. Because of her.

“I still can't believe she'd do this to me,” he says, shaking his head.

I can. I've believed it for years, and maybe this is just me being a bit of an asshole, but I feel slightly vindicated by it.

“I know, Trey,” I say. “I know you can't.”

“You tried to tell me,” he says, tapping his glass against the bottle. “You tried to tell me years ago. Don't think I forgot about that. I was a fucking jerk to not listen to you. You were right about her. All along, you were fucking right.”

I wouldn't go so far as to call him a fucking jerk, but a lovesick idiot, yeah. I pour him another shot and watch him power it down, his eyes growing glassy, and starting to sway on his barstool.

“You're not a jerk, man,” I say. “I get it. You were in love –”

“I was a fucking idiot,” he slurs.

“Don't worry about it,” I say. “We all do stupid shit, man. Especially when it comes to people we love – no matter how unworthy they are.”

Trey nods and slides off his barstool. He stands there on unsteady legs for a minute, looking at me through eyes shimmering with tears. He pats me on the shoulder and gives me a shaky nod.

“Gotta take a piss,” he slurs.

I watch him as he walks to the rear of the bar toward the bathrooms, swaying and staggering a bit as he goes. I shake my head. Trey is in bad shape and I don't know how to snap him out of it. I'm not very good when it comes to touchy-feely shit. Not really my area of expertise. It's also probably one of the reasons I've never been in a long-term relationship like Trey.

I down a shot and pour myself another. Looking at my watch, I curse under my breath. It's getting late and I've got a big meeting in the morning. I'm trying to close a deal on a big redevelopment project in Dallas and I need to be sharp. This project is potentially worth millions and I can't afford to drop the ball because I'm exhausted and hungover. I need to go over a few notes and get some shut-eye. I can't really afford to hold Trey's hand all night.

Maybe if I give him a few more shots, I can get him drunk enough to take him home and get him into bed to sleep it off. I figure I can check up on him again after my meeting. That's what I'm going to do. I hope that doesn't make me a complete shitheel.

Raised voices further down the bar draw my attention. The Rose isn't a place where you're going to see a lot of barfights – the clientele is usually more sedate and staid than that. So, when I hear the angry voices, I get a bad feeling that Trey is somehow involved, given his current state of mind and level of intoxication.

Turning to look, I'm not surprised to see him standing in front of a couple of guys – guys I've never seen in here before. Big and rugged, they look like they just stepped off a construction site. Trey isn't a small guy, but these two are a lot bigger than he is. Trey is hammered, which means he's going to be running his mouth more than usual because he's probably feeling fucking bulletproof right now.

Jumping off my stool, I rush down to where they are standing, nearly nose-to-nose. The tension and anger are thick in the air, as is the unspoken threat of violence. It's a heavy and oppressive feeling – much like the air just before a thunderstorm splits the sky open.

I step over and put a hand on Trey's chest, giving him a gentle, but firm push backward, before stepping in front of him and facing the two men. Dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and flannels, their work boots dirty and scuffed, I'm probably right about them being construction workers. Given that this place is usually host to attorneys, accountants, and other white-collar kind of professionals, these two are not the typical clientele at the Rose.

Mixed in with a crowd of people in designer suits – suits that probably cost more than they bring home in a month – they stand out like a sore thumb, truth be told.

“What's the problem here?” I ask.

“Your boyfriend here bumped into us,” the first man says. “Made me spill my goddamn drink.”

He's half a foot shorter than I am, but thicker through the shoulders and chest, and has arms as big around as my thigh. He's got dark eyes, a cleanly shaved head, and a thick, dark goatee shot through with gray. The other man is younger and is about the same height as the first guy, but has dirty blond hair that hangs to his shoulders. It looks greasy, like it hasn't been washed in weeks. He's got a full beard, blue eyes, but isn't nearly as big as his buddy.

“You'll have to excuse him,” I say. “He's had a tough day and has had a little too much to drink.”

“I don't give a fuck what his problem is,” the first guy says, puffing up his chest while staring daggers at me.

I sigh, physically trying to keep my temper from boiling up and over. The last thing I want is to get into a fight with these two clowns. I'm not as bulky as they are – I was a swimmer in college, so I'm leaner and toned, rather than bulky. But, I took Jiu-Jitsu lessons for years when I was younger and know how to take care of myself. I'm not intimidated by these two clowns in the least.

“Look,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice even. “Let me buy you two a round and let's call it a night.”

“Not until your boyfriend apologizes to Ray here,” the second man says.

I let out a long breath, doing my best to remain patient. Cutting a glance around, I see the other patrons paying attention to what's going on. Some look annoyed and others fascinated by the potential for bloodshed. I really don't want to bring this kind of bullshit into the Rose. Darius, the owner, is a friend of mine. And he takes great pains to make sure he provides a safe, mellow atmosphere in his bar. That's something I don't want to fuck up.

Trey is standing behind me and muttering something about kicking their asses. I raise my foot and stomp down on his, drawing a pained yelp from him. Things are already tense enough without him inserting his drunk-ass bravado into the mix.

“He's drunk. It was an accident –”

“Then it shouldn't be too much trouble for this bitch to apologize,” snaps baldy.

Trey starts to say something – something I know is only going to inflame the situation further – so I drive my elbow into his gut. He groans and doubles over, letting out a whoosh of breath. I hear him behind me struggling to catch it again.

“He's sorry,” I say. “If he were sober, he'd say as much. There, happy?”

The second man laughs and nudges his friend in the ribs. “Can you believe these two homos, man?”

The anger within me surges and then breaks through the mental dams I've been holding it back with. The temper is a feature of the Anderson family clan and is something I've struggled with my whole life. That lightning fast, quicksilver temper is in our genes. My brothers have always been good about keeping it in check, but it's a struggle for me.

I do a good job of containing it most of the time, but when assholes like these two push me, it becomes almost impossible to keep the monster in its cage.

I stand up straighter, staring the bald one in the eye. “You and your boyfriend here,” I say through gritted teeth, “are going to walk the fuck out of this bar right now.”

Baldy steps closer to me, puffing up his chest, thinking he can intimidate me with his sheer size. I stare into his face, feeling an amused smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I don't want to fight, but that doesn't mean I'm afraid to.

“That so?” baldy asks.

I stare down at the man through narrowed eyes. “Not only that,” I say, my voice low, “you and your boyfriend here are never going to set foot in here again. Trash like you doesn't belong in a place like this.”

“Who the fuck you callin' trash?” the second man growls.

“Pretty sure he just called us trash,” baldy says, staring at me with a feral smile, as if he's looking forward to getting into a fight.

“You're not as dumb as you look,” I say. “Congratulations. Now, get the fuck out of here.”

“Fuck you,” baldy snaps.

“Such cutting wit,” I say dryly. “I'm sure you make all the folks down at MENSA laugh their asses off.”

Trey, having finally caught his breath, says something completely unintelligible that makes the two men in front of me howl with laughter. I turn quickly and shove him into the booth behind him. He sits down and then falls onto his back on the seat, obviously having no idea where he is or how he got there. I turn back to the two men, the anger burning bright within me.

“We're done here,” I say. “Get the fuck out. Now.”

The air in the bar is silent and still, the atmosphere electric and humming with anticipation – the proverbial calm before the storm. No one speaks and although the other customers are all trying to pretend they're not looking at us, they can't help themselves and make it completely obvious they're watching closely.

“Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen,” baldy says. “We came in here for a drink –”

“There's another bar right down the street,” I say, looking them up and down dismissively. “I think they're better equipped to deal with – your kind.”

“My kind?” baldy snaps.

“Yeah, what the fuck's that supposed to mean?” the second guy asks.

I give them another up and down look of appraisal and scoff. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

“Hey, go fuck yourself,” baldy snaps.

“There's that razor-sharp wit backed up by an oh-so-powerful intellect,” I say.

Baldy steps up so that we're practically nose-to-nose, staring into each other's eyes. The tension in the bar ratchets up another few levels and I'm starting to think there is no way I'm going to avoid a physical confrontation with this assclown.

“I'm gonna fuck you up, asshole,” baldy growls.

“Walk away,” I say, standing taller.

“Oh, I'll walk away, alright,” he says. “When you're on the ground spittin' up blood and teeth.”

“Last chance,” I say. “Walk away right now.”

The bar around us is so silent that you can hear the proverbial pin drop. The air is so thick with tension I'm practically choking on it. But I'm not going to back down from this piece of garbage. I don't back down from anybody. The man raises his hand, pointing his finger at me and opens his mouth to say something. He's obviously not going to walk away from this without being taught a lesson first.

Moving with lightning-fast speed, I grab his hand and bend it backward painfully. I spin him around and wrench his arm up behind his back. He howls in agony as I twist his wrist into an awkward position and grab the back of his head. With one swift movement, I slam his head down onto the bar. The crack of his skull meeting the wood echoes through the place like a gunshot.

Releasing his hand, I give the man a push and he falls onto his hands and knees, moaning in pain. I'd opened a gash on his forehead and blood is running down his face, making his visage a gruesome sight. His friend stands there like he's frozen, doing nothing but staring at me.

“Like I said, asshole, we're done here,” I say. “Take your friend and get the fuck out. Now.”

The greasy-haired man bends down and helps his friend to his feet, scarcely taking his eyes off me the entire time. He puts an arm around baldy's shoulders and helps him out of the bar. I watch them go, every step of the way, until the door swings closed behind them. I turn back to find the other patrons and the bartender staring at me with wide eyes.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

I pull my wallet out of my pocket, dropping a few hundred dollars bills on the bar and looking around.

“The next round is on me, folks,” I say.

Turning around, I help Trey out of the booth. He looks around like he's just waking up from a nap and has no idea where he is. I put my arm around his shoulder, much like the greasy-haired guy had just done to baldy and help Trey out of the bar.

I walk him across the parking lot and to my car, using the remote to unlock it. I hold him up as I open the door. Maneuvering two-hundred pounds of limp man is no easy task, but I finally manage to pour Trey into the passenger seat of my car. He looks up at me, glassy-eyed, with a goofy, drunken grin on his face.

“You know I love you, don't you, bro?” he slurs.

“I do,” I say. “And you know I love you too.”

“We're like brothers, you and me.”

I nod. “That we are.”

Trey looks at me and I see his eyes light up, the grin on his face growing even goofier and more drunk looking. I can tell that an idea popped into that alcohol-soaked brain of his.

“Hey, let's get out of here for a few days,” he says. “Let's go to Vegas, man. Let's go blow off some steam and get ourselves laid. Like, a lot. No better way to forget one chick than to be balls deep in another one, am I right?”

I laugh and shake my head. “As tempting as that sounds,” I say, “I've got some meetings tomorrow I can't miss. Sorry, brother.”

His face falls and the goofy grin turns into a pouting frown. “Man, this sucks.”

“I know it does, Trey,” I say. “It's late though, and I should probably get you home.”

I close the passenger side door and walk around to the driver's side, climbing in behind the wheel. Trey is already passed out and drooling on himself by the time I fire up the engine on my BMW i6. The engine roars to life as I pull out of the parking lot, on my way to take my very inebriated best friend to the house where he caught his girl blowing another guy.

The only saving grace is that he kicked her out and she thankfully won’t be there. But still, the nasty hangover he’s bound to have, combined with the depression of all the memories weighing down on him, is going to suck for him.

Yeah, I wouldn't want to be Trey in the morning.