I never stood a chance of getting into work with Lucas without being seen.
What was I thinking, agreeing to ride in with him, especially after this morning?
That was the most awkward car ride I’ve had in my entire life.
Silence.
The entire fucking drive was made in utter, complete silence. The only sound breaking it was the droning of the local radio news anchor.
Our walk to the elevator that would take us up into the building from the underground employee parking structure was the same…silence.
When we reached the elevator bay and waited for the doors to open…silence.
Now, standing in the elevator on the way to our respective floors, surrounded by curious coworkers…silence.
The tension in the elevator car is only rivaled by the tension in the air outside.
August is always like this in New Orleans. The atmosphere is heavy with the continual threat of rain and thunderstorms. We’re going to get wet today.
The weatherman on the radio this morning also said a tropical depression had formed near Puerto Rico overnight. After Katrina, the constant danger from developing weather systems in the Atlantic keeps everyone on alert. No one wants a repeat, and we’d rather be over prepared.
This one better dissipate before it gets anywhere near us, I don’t have the energy to deal with a hurricane right now.
The ding sounds, alerting us we’ve reached the main floor, which is also Lucas’ stop.
I don’t know whether to say something to him or not, especially because there are other people in the car.
Shit, I might just make it worse.
A brief glance over at him tells me nothing. He’s still wearing a mask of indifference. The doors slide open and several people exit. Lucas steps forward and follows them out without a look back or a word.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Way to royally fuck up a good thing, Skye.
The doors slide closed, and I ride up to the second floor where I step off and make my way over the skywalk to the building that houses the physician offices in the hospital complex. I use my keycard to slip in the back door to the practice offices. Sometimes, I miss working in the main hospital. It was always more exciting to be in the center of the action when I worked in the ER, but working in a family medicine private practice gives me a much better schedule and more flexibility.
The employee break room is deserted this early. I’m almost always the first one in. Dumping my bag and jacket in my locker, I almost forget to grab my cell from my purse. I haven’t even had time to check my messages. That car ride was uncomfortable enough without me blatantly ignoring him by burying my face in my phone. Instead, I stared out the window at the city passing us by and wondered what was going on in his head.
How did I let things get so messed up? Star would know what to do, what to say, how to fix this. If it even can be fixed. How the hell will Lucas ever forgive me for what I did? How the hell do I get Gabe out of my heart and fucking head?
I really need you right now, Star. Tell me what to do.
As always, the fact that she isn’t here hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I have to drop down into a chair when the stabbing pain invades my heart. If I let the tears start, they won’t stop, and I’ll be utterly useless during my shift.
So, instead of dwelling on my missing other half, I open my messages…and my day goes from bad to worse.
The picture sends a pretty direct message even if I hadn’t typed the words right above it.
What the hell was I thinking?
I sent that to him?
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Why?
After months and months, why would I suddenly send him something like that?
I scroll up to his messages and get the answer.
Motherfucker!
Where does Gabe get off sending me a message saying he can’t stop thinking about me?
He crushes my soul, avoids me for months, lectures me about my relationship with my mother, and then sends me this?
Is he just fucking with me? Or is it true?
I guess it explains why I said his name at such a disastrous time. He got in my head last night with this bullshit. The fiasco with Lucas is all his fault.
Jamming my phone into my pocket, I head out to the reception area and check the patient schedule for today. It’s not too bad. Between me and the two doctors I work for, we can see a significant amount of patients every day, but the receptionists know not to put too many on. One thing you don’t want to deal with is a cranky, overworked doctor.
Or a cranky, overworked me.
Cranky, overworked, and pissed the hell off.
Gabe didn’t respond to the picture. Maybe he didn’t see it?
Yeah, right, Skye, and maybe pigs will fly out of your ass.
None of this would have happened if Star had been at the wedding. I never would have been falling into the abyss. It never would have caused me to act on my feelings for Gabe. I knew it would only fuck things up. Throwing myself at him like that…
God!
He’s Savage’s best friend and practically grew up as my brother. How fucked up is that?
I jump when someone claps me on the shoulder. “Shit, Mackenzie, I didn’t hear you come in.”
She chuckles and brushes past me to take her seat at the reception desk. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You may need a defibrillator to get my heart going again.”
“Handy we have one of those, then.” She grins before turning to her computer. “Things look relatively light today.”
I sigh. “Thank God for that.” Usually, Mondays are a pain in the fucking ass.
“Are you all right? You look a little upset.”
Upset doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Forcing a smile I don’t feel, I stand and make my way around her. “I’m fine, just tired and not looking forward to the shift.”
She purses her lips, and I doubt my acting abilities were Oscar-worthy, but she lets it slide. I slip away before she can question me any further. Maybe reviewing patient charts will take my mind off the clusterfuck I’ve created.
Then again, maybe not.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve managed to only review the conversation with Gabe twice. And I only cursed my own stupidity twenty times, so it feels like a win.
I grab a salad from the buffet line, lustfully eyeing the French fries and grilled cheese I really want.
Fucking diet.
Who would have thought losing Star would actually make me gain weight? I’m apparently one of those people who drown their sorrows in booze and food, because I’ve gained at least fifteen pounds since the accident.
I drop my tray on the nearest open table and dig in to my less-than-satisfactory lunch.
My skin prickles when he walks in, almost as if I can feel the disdain in his glare. I peek up and briefly make eye contact before Lucas beelines for the food line, not bothering to glance back in my direction.
Shit. I really fucked this up.
The decision of whether or not to try to talk to him is removed from my control when he turns toward me, locks eyes with me, and proceeds to walk straight past me to a table against the back wall.
I guess that answers that question.
I didn’t realize we were in middle school and were playing the “you can’t sit with me” game.
My salad has become even less appetizing than it was before. I dump it in the trash and leave the cafeteria as fast as my legs can carry me.
There’s no way this is going to end well.
Gabe’s name slipping from my lips may well have been the deathblow to me and Lucas. I’m going to need a drink, or ten, after work tonight.
On my walk back to the office, I pull out my phone and call the first person who comes to mind.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey Storm, any chance you can pick your baby sister up from work around 7:00 and take her for a drink tonight?”
She lets out a sigh and then laughs. “I should be annoyed at having to drive all the way over there to get you, but I really need a drink, too. I’ll tell Ben to pick up Angelina from daycare and I’ll come get you. We need to go to the club though, I need Savage and Gabe to sign off on some plans and can kill two birds with one stone.”
Fuck.
The last place I want to go right now is the club. Especially if Gabe is going to be there. But if I decline, Storm will ask why, and there’s no way she needs to know about my morning slip or the ongoing saga of my unrequited love for Savage’s best friend.
“All right, sounds good. I’ll see you around seven.”
Maybe I can avoid him at the club tonight. If I’m lucky, he’ll be up in his office and won’t even come down to the bar area.
Yeah, right, who am I kidding? I’ve never been lucky.
Renee—stage name Scarlett—bends over in front of a patron in one of the chairs lining the stage and smiles at him from between her legs. He leans forward and slips a twenty into her G-string before she snaps up and makes her way back to the pole. “Cherry Pie” blasts over the speakers as Scarlett swirls around the pole in time with the music.
Beautiful, mostly-naked women surround me all day long, but none of them do a single thing for me. The only one who does is the one I can’t have. All I have is a long line of mindless fucks who drain my dick but not my desire for her.
Fuck my life. For real.
I lean back against the counter that runs along the wall behind the bar and watch Scarlett finish her dance to rousing applause from the crowd. There are quite a few people here for 7:30.
Normally, I would be out of here on a night like this—Mondays generally don’t get too busy, and I doubt the crowd will grow much—but Storm called and asked Savage and me to stay to review some final plans for yet another of our expansion projects.
I’m really starting to regret our decision to push development of multiple new locations all at once. We opened the second club and a restaurant less than a year ago, and now we are already neck-deep in development of a third club location and another restaurant. Not only do we need to supervise the construction of two separate buildings, but we have to hire staff and find suppliers for each location. We were lucky to find great managers for the second club and the restaurant, but the more locations we open and people we hire, the less control we have. Plus, Savage is pushing for a fourth club on Bourbon Street, which is utterly insane.
Yes, there’s a shitload of money to be made from the tourists down there, but it would be impossible to maintain any semblance of control or decorum in a club located in the French Quarter. If he wants to maintain the strict policies and image we have in place for the brand, there’s no way we can do it there. We’ve been butting heads on this for over a year—going back and forth about the pros and cons—and now a great location is available, so I’m sure it will be coming up again during our meeting with Storm.
The last thing I need right now is the complication of my feelings for Skye. Then again, maybe if I’m busy enough, I won’t have time to fantasize about her.
Yeah, right.
I turn and pour myself a shot of Jameson, downing it quickly and savoring the burn.
Byron walks by and swats me on the arm. “I know that look, man. Girl trouble, am I right?”
I scoff and turn to him. “What would you possibly know about girl trouble?”
His hand pauses midway to the bottle of Maker’s Mark he was reaching for before it drops to his side. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before facing me.
Shit, Gabe. Way to stick your foot in your mouth.
“Byron, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
His eyes open, and he watches me speculatively. I know exactly what’s running through his mind. He’s wondering if he’s going to be fired, or if I’m going to start making some crude jokes or smartass comments.
“Look, man, Savage and I have known for a while. Actually, I knew before we even hired you. Background checks and all…”
I trail off, and he nods, pressing his lips into a thin line and clenching his hands into fists at his sides.
“We don’t give a fuck who you fuck, okay? It’s completely irrelevant to you doing your job.”
He nods again. His shoulders relax slightly, but he still doesn’t say anything. I take a tentative step toward him and place my hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Just don’t expect to be let backstage when we finally add a Ladies’ Night.”
That finally cracks him, and he laughs and claps me on the shoulder with a grin. “Duly noted, man.”
Whew.
Alienating Byron, or even worse, losing him, would have been devastating for the business. He runs this place so well, Savage and I couldn’t operate without him. Who gives a fuck if he’s gay? He could be a Brony for all I care, as long as he does his job well.
“But, as I was saying, if it’s girl troubles, which both you and I know it is, then my advice is just to apologize.”
Apologize. Yeah, right.
“I did the right thing. I don’t have anything to apologize for.”
Byron pours us both another shot of Jameson. He raises his and grins. “Do it anyway.”
I grunt at him in acknowledgement of the suggestion, though I have no plans on taking his advice. We clink our shot glasses before I down mine in one quick swallow.
The problem with apologizing to Skye is having to admit, out loud and to her face, not only that the kiss had actually happened, but also that I’d kissed her back.
One stupid moment. A snapshot in time. One kiss that ruined everything.
I went from an easy brotherly relationship with her to thinking about her 24/7, in a most decidedly non-brotherly way.
Avoiding her doesn’t help. Ignoring her doesn’t help. Fucking other beautiful women doesn’t help.
But tonight, once I’m done with Storm, I’m going to give that last one another shot.
Byron turns his attention to one of the waitresses, and I return mine to the stage. The opening riff of “Kashmir” begins, and I chuckle to myself. Nora is about to strut out from backstage. Only she would pick Led Zeppelin for her signature dance and Cashmere for a stage name. The girl is smart and has a crazy sharp sense of humor.
I bet some of the younger men in here don’t even get the play on the word when her stage name is announced with the song. The lack of classic rock appreciation in this generation kills me.
“And now, welcome Cashmere!” The announcement is met with applause, and Nora enters the stage to whoops and hollers. Byron waves to someone who just entered the club, and I glance over, expecting to see one of the regulars.
Aww, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me…
Those same damn blue eyes that haunt my dreams and every waking moment of every day drill into me as Skye approaches the bar with Storm.
Storm smiles, waves to me and Byron, and proceeds toward us. Skye just sidles up to the far end of the bar and motions for Clarissa, the other bartender, to come over to her.
The low, black tank-top she’s sporting barely contains the swell of her breasts when she leans forward across the bar top to talk to Clarissa.
My jeans are suddenly four sizes too small, and I bite back a groan as the zipper presses against my cock.
Sweet Lord, this woman is trying to kill me.