Ryker
Brandon is already at the bar with a beer when I walk in.
“Hey, man. What do you want? I’m buying.”
“Shot of Johnny Walker.”
Brandon’s eyes widen. “Rough day?”
I drop onto the stool beside him and shove my hands through my hair. “Fucked-up day, that’s for sure.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I just need a fucking drink.” And that’s the truth. What the hell am I going to do?
He waves the bartender over and orders my shot—but makes it a double. “Best advice I have—get drunk enough not to have to think about it until tomorrow. I’ll haul your ass home. My turn to be DD, right?” He pushes his bottle away.
The bartender pours the Johnny Walker, and I don’t hesitate to knock it back.
Maybe Brandon’s right. Getting drunk enough not to think about this until tomorrow sounds like a hell of a plan, even though I know it’s not the smart choice.
I have to talk to Justine . . . but what the fuck am I going to say to her?
My phone vibrates with a text, and I pull it out of my pocket.
JUSTINE: We need to talk. Please, just let me explain.
So dear old Dad called her instead of me. I guess that’s what accomplices do. I stare at my phone, but I have no idea what the fuck to say.
I toss it on the bar next to Brandon’s instead.
“Glad to see you still have the same good taste as I do.”
Our phones are identical, but his isn’t staring back at him waiting for him to answer a text that changes everything.
“I need another shot.”
He waves the bartender over, no questions asked, and starts talking about college football. I couldn’t give a shit less about it right now, and my mind goes right back to the same place it has for months. Fuck, years. Justine.
Do I really need her to explain? She was desperate; I’ll give her that. I saw that desperation with my own eyes when she walked into Déjà Vu looking for a job.
The shot glass is filled over and over, and I keep tipping them back. Brandon gives up on trying to talk to me and leaves his stool to talk to a redhead at the pool table.
Good. I’m not fit for company right now.
The front door whooshes open and a group of laughing people come in. Students. I recognize a couple of them. One in particular.
Fuck. Maybe she won’t see me.
No such luck. Merica eyes me with curiosity as she leaves her group behind and comes toward me. She nods to the empty shot glass on the bar.
“What the hell are you doing drinking alone?”
“Does it matter?”
I debate ordering another shot, but instead reach for a handful of popcorn in a basket Brandon left behind. I misjudge and it flips, popcorn spilling everywhere.
“You’re shitfaced, aren’t you?”
Before I can deny it, she has her phone out and her fingers move furiously over the screen.
It doesn’t matter whether I’m shitfaced or not; I know exactly who she’s texting. I snatch her phone out of her hands, hoping I’m quicker than her thumb on the Send button.
“Hey! What the hell!”
Merica reaches for the phone but I swivel around on the bar stool, keeping it out of her reach. The words are blurry on the screen, but I can read the message.
MERICA: Ryker is drunk off his ass at Spartan’s Brew House. You might want to get down here. I think something’s REALLY wrong. Did you tell him?
I’m staring at the last part of the message, letting the meaning sink in, when she yanks it out of my hands.
“What the fuck is your problem, dude?”
“How much did you know? How much did she tell you? About the deal she made with my dad?”
Merica’s eyes widen but there’s no confusion, only surprise.
She knew.
“She told you everything, didn’t she?”
Merica scans the bar and looks back at me. “Look, you need to talk to her.”
It’s all the answer I need to confirm my suspicions.
How many times did Justine dodge my questions about how she was paying her tuition? How many times did she have the chance to tell me the truth? Too many.
“How did she tell you? Just casually mention she found a creative way to get her tuition paid after she lost her scholarship? I’m really fucking curious about how you tell someone that, because apparently she couldn’t find the words to tell me.”
“Who told you?” Merica asks, her eyes still wide.
“Doesn’t fucking matter, because it wasn’t Justine.”
She lays a hand on top of the bar. “Your dad?”
“No.” The word comes out harsh, because he should have told me. One of them should’ve fucking told me.
“Look, you need to talk to her. Or your dad. Because there’s a lot more to the story than you realize. I mean, why do you think she took that job at the firm? She’s paying your dad back. She’s not taking shit for free.”
Shock floods my system, and I try to fit this new information into what I already know. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “This is why you need to talk to them. Get your facts straight before you go off half-cocked. You don’t think it would’ve been easier for her to just let him keep paying her tuition? She’s going to take a job at Legal Aid where she makes next to nothing, and still she decided she couldn’t be with you unless your dad agreed to make it a loan.”
Her words sink in slowly. A loan?
“Are you sure?”
Merica arches an eyebrow. “Sure that you’re being a jackass? Absolutely. Now, go fucking talk to her and try not to say something you’re going to regret.”
“I have to talk to her. Now.”
Merica’s right. This fucking changes everything, including any leverage Kristy has to threaten her.
“First smart thing you’ve said since I got here. Why don’t you call a cab and go do that?” She pats me on the shoulder. “Next time, don’t be a douche bag.”
“Right.”
She turns and heads back to her group. I grab my phone and look for Brandon by the pool table. He and the redhead are both gone.
That motherfucker.
It’s not the first time he has bailed on me for pussy. Apparently some things never change. Asshole.
I return to the bar to pay both our tabs, and head out the back door.
I have to find Justine and talk to her in person. Now. I need to understand what the hell is really going on.