Page 69 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

“I’m sure he will,” I choke out. “So, uh, I’ll see you at poker night?”

James nods. “Yes. Good luck, Beau.”

I huff out a wry laugh, because my luck sure can’t get any worse.

When I emerge from the Sequel building, the sun shines brightly down on me. Kids wait in line at an ice cream truck, excitedly pointing at the pictures of popsicles on the side. A couple holds hands, giggling at some joke.

It feels like I’m the only person in the whole city whose life is falling apart.

The walk back to the House of Cards is slow and plodding as I sort through everything that’s happened. James definitely suspects that Brinley is Peppermint, even if I didn’t confirm it for him. I didn’t have to—Luke’s investigation is going to get there eventually, anyway. Brinley’s barely speaking to me, while our relationship implodes under the twin fires of Peppermint and I love you.

I have no idea what happens next, and it terrifies me. I’m not just scared for myself—I’m scared for Brinley, and what happens to her after Luke finds out she’s been trashing him for years. What happens to her friendships when Pippa, Cat, and Maura learn about her betrayal. Even what happens to the Copper Cup once Peppermint’s identity gets blasted to the whole world.

What happens to the girl who already had her diary read aloud to the world, and how she’ll survive being exposed all over again.

There’s only one thing I do know. I can’t just stand by and watch, like I did ten years ago, muttering “Don’t be a dick,” in a small voice that wouldn’t stop a breeze. I was eighteen and a coward, and it cost me a price I’ve been trying to repay ever since.

This time, I’m going to protect her.

I have no idea how, with Luke’s investigation and James’s deadline bearing down on her. All I know is that when it all comes down, I won’t be the guy who just stands there. Not this time. Whatever it costs me—Luke, the guys, the only family he’s ever had that stayed—I won’t watch Brinley burn again.

I have to find a way, before I run out of time.

24

BRINLEY

Agothy-looking preteen slides a copy of Anne of Green Gables across the counter to me. She pulls a crumpled $20 bill out of her pocket and shoves it at me like it’s radioactive.

“Here,” she mutters.

“This is a great book,” I tell her sweetly. “I think you’re really going to like it.”

Her face turns beet red. “It’s not for me. It’s for my sister.”

I nod, pretending to accept her lie. “Of course. You read much cooler books, I bet. All mysteries and horror, right?”

She lifts her chin. “That’s right. My books are about vampires and serial killers.”

I hand her back her change. “Next time you come in, I’ll make sure I have a few ready for you. And if your sister’s interested, we’ve also got Anne of Avonlea in stock.”

The girl nods, grabbing her change and shoving the book under the crook of her arm. She practically sprints across the Copper Cup and out the door, leaving me completely alone. I should be glad that the customers filtered out right before we closed. I’m not. The silence gives far too much room for my own thoughts to spread.

I’ve been answering Beau’s texts, mostly for plausible deniability. If I don’t ignore him, I can pretend we never fought at the hotel. That he never said those three words. That I refuse to let him explain his side of that terrible prank, because I can’t bear to hear him say things like I was young then and I didn’t know how much it would hurt you. Apologies that wouldn’t come close to enough.

Our messages are surface-level, carefully revealing nothing. We’ve both retreated back behind walls we built years ago, walls we haven’t needed since our first tentative attempts at getting close to each other.

I know it can’t last. If everything between us really was fine, I wouldn’t be so miserable.

Then, like I’ve summoned him, Beau opens the door. He looks so handsome, it practically hurts to look at him. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that hugs his biceps and hints at the shape of his chest underneath. His slightly-too-long hair and the scruff on his jaw make me want to run my fingers all over him.

He takes a few cautious steps toward me, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head ducked slightly. I can tell from a tight set of his jaw that something else has happened—something new—but I don’t think I want to know what.

“Closing time?” he asks.

When I nod, he locks the door behind him and switches the door sign from open to closed.

“We need to⁠—”