Page 157 of Midnight Curfew

I pour two drinks, not telling Iron that I stayed late today only because I hoped to run into Callum.

To fight. To taunt.

Even just to look at him.

He never showed, though. Anna-Katherine was with my sister all day, so he didn’t have to pick her up.

“Yeah, Macon knows a thing or two,” I tease. “I guess we’ll really see when it’s your turn.”

Iron chuckles. “Fuck off.”

I hand him a glass.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says.

“Please.” I jiggle the glass at him.

What the hell is his problem? Macon rarely drinks anymore, and neither does Trace, and he owns a bar! The only one I can count on is Army, and given his bitching lately, I don’t think we should be drunk around each other right now.

“I was in a prison without you,” I point out. “And it still feels like you’re not home.”

It’s slight, but I see how he reacts. The miniscule slump to his shoulders just before he turns his eyes up at me. And immediately, I realize I’m an asshole. Again.

He takes the glass, and I plop down onto the chair, legs bent and feet planted on the ground on both sides.

When I take a sip, the weight of his presence next to me grows heavier. Why did I say that? As if he owes me something.

As if I have a right to make demands on him after what he’s been through. He owes me nothing, even if it’s his own fault he was in prison.

He’s changed so much, though.

And we’ve yet to see if it’s for better or worse. He wanted to be a pilot—even started studying for it while he was in jail—but nothing is the same anymore.

He’s calm now, and I don’t know why that scares me.

I drain my glass and tip my head back, closing my eyes. It’s almost five. Getting on to dinnertime.

My stomach tightens, and I shake my head clear. Fuck it.

Opening my eyes, I lower my chin, eyeing the girls in the pool. A blonde, a brunette, and one with light brown hair. She’s the shortest. I like short girls. Easy to carry.

An image of Golden Boy enters my head, and I blink long and hard.

“What’s wrong?” Iron asks.

I snatch the bottle off the table and pour in three fingers. “I’m fine.”

I drink, but he doesn’t return to his work. Just stares at me.

I swallow, clearing my throat against the burn. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you screwing him again?”

I scowl at my brother. “What did I just say?”

How the hell did he figure that out, dammit?

I don’t need advice or a scolding. I just need to go to the bar with my favorite brother and get drunk and laid.