Taking out the items one by one, I ignore the growing sensation in my chest. It’s a nagging feeling, one that digs at you until you’re spurred to action. I’ve trained my brain to think of anything else in times like this. Like it’s supposed to, my mind flickers through punching combinations, mixed drinks, random television trivia, but none of it works. None of it can distract me from her.
Not that this is an unusual development. I think of her all damn day. Today was different, though. More specific.
Instead of imagining her tight pussy or hearing her laugh at some stupid joke, today I’ve thought of the look she had in her eyes last night. It was devoid of judgement. There was no fear, which was my fear. It was just the look of a woman caring about . . . me. The real me. The me that has all this dirt and garbage and not-so-nice things. Me. Dominic Hughes, born April 8, 1989.
It’s like she sees me as someone worth seeing.
“Shit,” I say, blowing out a breath.
Taking out the last item, a jar of smooth peanut butter, I walk to the pantry and place it inside. I turn towards the kitchen table when I see a piece of white paper on the floor next to Nate’s shoes.
Lifting the folded piece of paper that looked like it had fallen to the spot where it was lying, I open it. The top has the logo of the bank Nate and I use. Beneath that is his name and a figure much larger than it should be.
“What the fuck?”
Bringing it closer to my face and ignoring the vomit that swirls at the base of my throat, I see that it’s a notice of a money transfer. My body slumps, realizing he must’ve gotten the loan fast-tracked. I make a note to give him hell about moving out and start to drop it onto the counter. Before it falls from my fingers, I snatch it up again.
Camilla Jane Landry is listed at the bottom as the sender.
“Wha
t?” I hiss. The paper rasps as I shake it straight again. “What the absolute fuck is this?”
The lines blur as a heavy dose of adrenaline kicks in. The numbers don’t make sense and it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to see Cam’s name on a bank receipt with Nate’s name attached.
The rush of blood to my head causes me to wince, my jaw clenching so hard it throbs. A million thoughts roar through my mind, searching for a logical explanation to a situation I can’t make sense of. Because there is no sense to make of it.
“Did you get the . . .” Nate’s voice drops off as he rounds the corner and stops in his tracks. He takes a quick look at my face, then to the paper, then to my face again. His eyes widen. The hand that’s holding the towel he was using to dry his hair falls limp at his side. “Dom . . .”
“First question, where’s Ryder?”
“With Chrissy. Why?”
“I don’t want him to hear this conversation,” I state, the paper quivering in my hand.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m torn here, Nate,” I bark, twisting the paper around in my hand so he can see it. He blanches. “You’re my brother, so I’m like, ‘Yeah, there’s a logical explanation to this.’ Then I look again and, you know what? There’s no logical explanation to this.”
His head shakes, his chin dropping to the floor. “Look, Dom, I can explain.”
“Oh, I hope you can,” I growl. “And you better fucking start right now.”
“Camilla offered to lend me the money—”
“And you fucking let her?” I shout, the muscles in my face straining as the words eject from my mouth. “You fucking let my girlfriend loan you ten. Thousand. Dollars?”
“I’m going to pay her back.”
My laugh isn’t from amusement. It shakes with a fury I haven’t felt in years. Nate picks up on it because he takes a half-step backwards. “This isn’t about you paying her back, cocksucker. This is about you taking the motherfucking money!”
Each word amps up my anger, each syllable getting a little louder until I’m almost screaming. My temples throb. The veins in my throat threaten to burst as I rip into him. Still, there’s so much fury fighting to get out that it doesn’t help.
“You know how this shit works. What the fuck are you thinking?” I step to him, my eyes glued on his. “What in God’s name made you think this was okay? What made you think you could do this and not even fucking ask me?”
We’re toe-to-toe, only inches separating us. Just like in the ring, I can taste his fear—sense his trepidation that I may close the distance between us with my fist faster than he can see it coming.
My chest rises and falls, nearly touching his on the uptake. If he wasn’t my brother, I’d lay him out. If I wasn’t his brother, he wouldn’t let me get away with this either.