Page 93 of Wicked Fortune

Matthew paced the living room, the shadows of twilight lengthening across the polished wood floors. He’d built this place himself. Knew every inch of it, every nail, every fixture.

She’d only left two days ago, but already the treehouse felt unfamiliar. Foreign, even.

He missed the stack of books she’d kept on one of the side tables. The soft throw she’d use to cover her feet as they snuggled together on the couch.

And now—oh, God—the faint trace of her perfume had almost faded away.

She was gone. And his home was now nothing more than a mausoleum of memories.

The lonely silence pressed in on him, suffocating and absolute. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts without thinking. Joel’s name caught his eye, and before he could talk himself out of it, he tapped the screen.

“Hey,” Joel answered after the second ring. “Don’t tell me there’s trouble with the case?”

“Nothing like that.”

“So this is a social call. What’s up?”

“I need a drink.”

A pause. Then, “You all right?”

“Not even close.”

“I’ll meet you. Where?”

Matthew rattled off the address of a bar just off Ventura Boulevard that he’d noticed a few times. He wasn’t sure why he’d picked it—maybe because it was unassuming, the kind of place where no one would recognize him or care who he was. Joel agreed without hesitation, and Matthew hung up, grabbing his keys before he could change his mind.

The bar was even darker inside than it had seemed from the street. Faint strains of classic rock hummed from an old jukebox in the corner, and the low murmur of conversation filled the air. It wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either—a handful of patrons nursed drinks at the bar or slouched in vinyl booths.

Matthew chose a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the others. He ordered a scotch, neat, and watched the bartender pour it with practiced efficiency. The first sip burned all the way down, but it didn’t dull the ache in his chest.

He was halfway through his drink when Joel appeared, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he scanned the room. Spotting Matthew, he crossed the floor with easy strides, sliding onto the stool beside him.

“You look like hell,” Joel said, flagging down the bartender. “Bad day?”

Matthew huffed a humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

Joel ordered a bourbon, neat, then tilted his head to study Matthew. “This is your party. What’s going on?”

Matthew swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light fractured through it. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Hell, he wasn’t sure he could say anything at all.

“It’s a woman,” he admitted finally, keeping his tone neutral. “I screwed up. She found out, and now she’s gone.”

“Screwed up how?”

“Old sins,” he said quietly. “Things I did a long time ago. Before Hardline. Well, things I did to finance Hardline.”

Joel eyed him, nodding slowly.

“She thought she knew me, but this—this changed everything.”

Joel leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “And now she’s seeing an asshole version of you instead of the guy she fell for.”

Matthew nodded. “Pretty much.”

Joel’s fingers tapped absently on the bar. “That’s rough.”

“It’s eating me up,” he admitted. “I can’t change who I was. And I thought she knew I wasn’t that man anymore.”