Page 53 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

“And how does that help us exactly?” I ask.

“It gives us a general age range. The writing style is more juvenile then, like someone in junior high or early high school. That puts Peppermint in their mid-20s. If that’s true, we can cross a whole lot of names off our suspect list.”

Shit. The fanfic stuff was funny at first, but it actually brings Luke uncomfortably close to narrowing in on Brinley. I’ve got to shut it down.

“I don’t know. I feel like you’re reading too much into this. I mean, how do we know Peppermint was in junior high? What if they’re just a really shitty fanfic writer?”

“The age range checks out for other reasons,” Luke argues. “It makes sense that someone who’s not that much younger than us would be writing this. Someone who’s our peer.”

“Maybe you’re right, but maybe we wipe the real Peppermint’s name off our list because of a hunch.”

Luke’s eyes narrow. “Do you want to catch Peppermint or not?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well, you’re not acting like it. You’re barely responding in the group chat, and you shut down any idea I have. I know it’s not your sex life that went viral, but it would mean a lot to me if you pretended to take it seriously.” His cheeks are red, his eyes bright with anger. Guilt pounds through my veins, reminding me what a piece of shit I am for keeping so many secrets from him.

“Of course I take it seriously, Luke. I’ve been distracted with my trip and my own bullshit, I guess. I’m sorry.”

Luke just stands and puts his weights back on the rack. “It’s fine,” he mutters. “We’ll catch up when you get over your jet lag. Have a good workout.”

He waves and walks over to the elevator, leaving me alone in the gym. I groan and lie back on the weight bench. Luke’s obviously still annoyed with me, and I don’t blame him. He might not know that I’ve been sabotaging the Peppermint hunt, but I’m definitely acting like I don’t care.

I grab my phone and open my last texts with Brinley.

Beau

Did you get home okay?

Brinley

Yeah, thanks for asking. You?

Beau

I did. I miss you already. I wish we were back in Italy, drinking wine on the terrace.

Brinley

I wish we were, too.

On the surface, there’s nothing weird about the texts, but they’re off somehow. Sweet, but not playful. Niceties that just point to the things we didn’t say. Neither of us have acknowledged the I love you. It sits in the conversation like a third presence, watching and waiting to intrude.

Neither of us has dared the other to anything in eleven days.

I dare you to call me.

I dare you to come over.

Dare me to say it again.

Dare me to take it back.

Five different drafts I've started and deleted.

I don't know who broke first. I just know we both did.

I close my eyes. I broke a rule and I have no fucking idea what happens now. The rules were the architecture of our relationship—without them, what are we? I don’t know if she’s pulling away or gathering courage to say it back or deciding this is over. I can’t ask her, because asking would mean acknowledging that what I said changed things, and if it changed things then the rules don’t work anymore, and if the rules don’t work then⁠—