“Do you see anyone else sitting at the bar, jackass?” Justin whipped his towel at Blake. “Besides, last time you were here I was working. So much so you lasered me in half with your eyes when I was slower than usual to bring you your beer.”
“It had nothing to do with the beer.”
“What did it have to do with?” Justin smirked. “Wait. Let me guess. Asian, long dark hair, lips that look like they’re made for s—”
“Finish that sentence and your face will meet my fist,” Blake growled.
The bartender seemed unfazed. “Maybe not, because you clearly need to get laid. You’re wound tighter than a British lord with a stick up his ass.”
He wasn’t wrong. Blake’s night with Farrah in Syracuse had left him with a cracked-open chest and balls bluer than a Smurf. His right hand helped, but not much. He could go out and find a willing body to sink
into for the night, but every time he contemplated the option, it sounded as appealing as sticking his dick in a hornet’s nest.
Farrah had, for all intents and purposes, ruined him for other women.
“One day, J, someone will hand your ass to you and you’ll deserve every second of it,” Landon clapped Blake on the back. “Bring the uptight one here a burger and a whiskey. On me.”
Within an hour, the bar filled up, which Blake didn’t mind. It meant Justin had something to do other than butting into his conversation.
“Everything’s going to shit.” Blake stared at the amber liquid in his glass until it blurred before his eyes. “I swear, it’s karma.”
“For what?”
Blake shrugged.
As usual, Landon read his mind. “That wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. Cleo, the police, your family…no one blames you.”
I do. “Her dad does.”
“Her dad’s a jackass.”
Blake’s eyebrows shot up. Landon almost never cursed. Too uncouth for the $500 million heir.
He grimaced the second the thought crossed his mind. I’m the jackass. Landon may be rich, but he wasn’t one of those stuck-up, my-shit-don’t-stink types. They met when Blake accidentally kicked a soccer ball in Landon’s face when they were seven. Blake’s mom apologized profusely, and Landon’s nanny freaked out, but Landon just laughed and bet Blake he couldn’t beat him in a one-on-one match. Blake did—the first time around. Landon beat him the second time. They’d been best friends since.
“Don’t give me that look,” Landon said. “You of all people know how impossible Cleo’s father can be.”
True. Cleo’s father made Blake’s dad look like a basket of fuzzy newborn golden retrievers. He’d nearly ripped Blake’s head off and fed it to his Rottweiler when he found out Blake had impregnated his only daughter before marriage.
“I don’t want to talk about Cleo’s father or anything related to Austin,” Blake said, even though a ticket confirmation for his flight home was burning a hole in his inbox. He’d caved and bought a flight home for his dad’s birthday after all—not because he had a particular desire to see Joe, but because he owed it to his mom and sister. “I have enough present shit going on without digging up past shit.”
“Fair enough.” Landon twirled his glass on the counter. “Speaking of present shit, how’re things with Farrah?”
Blake cracked a half-hearted smile. “Shitty.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Blake hadn’t planned on detailing his humiliating night to his friend, but the whiskey loosened his tongue, and before he knew it, he’d spilled everything.
Landon listened while a kaleidoscope of surprise and disbelief played across his face. He didn’t say anything after Blake finished, but maybe that was because a certain bartender butted in before he could.
“You turned down sex with her?” Justin’s voice sliced between them. “What is wrong with you?”
Blake turned to see his friend-slash-royal-pain-in-the-ass staring at him with his mouth agape as he wiped the same spot on the counter over and over, apparently too stunned by Blake’s bad decisions to notice the water ring two inches to his left.
“How are you back already?” Blake demanded. “The place is packed now.”
“My shift ended ten minutes ago. I’m staying for shits and giggles.”