Tate’s jaw flexed with the grind of his teeth. The look in his eyes, so dull, so cold, gave her an eerie tingle. “Don’t call me when he hurts you. When he leaves you like all the others.”
Fear bloomed in the pit of Mia’s stomach. “Tate, I’m not—”
“Leaving you” never got out of her mouth. Another boom sounded, followed by Rafe’s voice. “Tate. Talk to me, you fucking coward.”
“Good luck with that,” Tate said, tipping his head toward Rafe before sidestepping Mia and continuing on even as Rafe started toward them in a pained stagger, hand pressed to his side.
Mia got two steps toward Rafe when she heard Joe’s voice behind her. “What in the hell is going on here?”
Mia looked over her shoulder. And when she saw his expression, she saw so much similarity between him and Tate, an icy chill filled her stomach. Joe took hold of Tate’s arm as if his son was three, not thirty, and dragged him to where Mia stood and Rafe approached. And when Mia looked at Rafe again, she gasped.
“Holy shit.” She scanned the cuts on his mouth, his cheek, his eye. The bruises on his chin, his cheek… And spun on Tate, launching herself at him. She pounded both hands against his chest. “You fucking asshole.” The fact that he didn’t move even a millimeter only added fuel to her infuriation. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Stop it, Mia.” Joe’s curt order shocked her to a stop. With his gaze on Rafe’s face, he threw Tate’s arm away with a sound that was part sigh, part disgust. “Did you do that to the man who’s been your best friend for two decades, Tate?” When Tate didn’t answer, only glared at Rafe, Joe barked, “Tate, I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joe pried a pained gaze off Rafe’s face and stared at his son for a long time. Tate never met his father’s eyes. His gaze was pinned to the ground, holding on to belligerent anger. The pain reflected on Joe’s face seemed to radiate through the group. They all stood silent, reflecting in the disgrace they’d created among themselves.
She and Rafe might not have gone about it the right way, but Mia wouldn’t go back and change her decision. After last night, after knowing how it felt to be truly loved by Rafe, she knew without a doubt she’d never want to go through life missing out on that.
Then Joe turned to Rafe. “Rafe, did you deserve that beating?”
Rafe’s lips compressed, eased, compressed. He shifted on his feet. His knee bounced. Head dipped. Never once did he meet anyone’s gaze. And Mia’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach.
She pulled in a breath to answer for him. But Joe held up a hand to her, index finger raised.
Mia pressed her lips together and crossed her arms.
“Rafe?”
He
cleared his throat. Winced. And rasped, “Yes, sir.”
The knife in Mia’s heart dragged down the center of her body, filleting her open. Her lips parted to ask him exactly what the hell that meant, but Joe spoke first.
“We. Are. Family,” he said, his voice rough and livid. “This”—he gestured to Rafe’s face, speaking to Tate—“is not how family treats family. I don’t care what he did or what he thinks he deserves. I expect better of you.” Then he addressed Rafe. “This is a talk I never thought I’d ever have to give you in my lifetime, Rafe.”
Mia was watching the bottom of her world slide out from under her. She dropped her arms, fisted her hands, and looked at the three men standing there. All three of them breaking her heart.
“Do any of you care about me?” That brought all their gazes to her. And it was so too little too late. “You all seem awful caught up in this friendship bullshit.” She gestured to Tate and Rafe. “And this father-son bullshit.” She gestured to all the men. “Where do I fit into this puzzle? Or am I still just that dangling little leftover who will forever be an afterthought? Secondary to friendship or a convenient tool to winning fatherly approval?”
Joe angled toward her with a confused frown. “What are you—”
This time, she was the one to lift her hand to Joe for quiet, while giving them both one last chance to do the right thing—both apologize for being assholes and show their love for her—as a sister to Tate and a lover to Rafe—was more important than some bromance they’d clung to since puberty. “Either of you?”
Joe glanced at the guys. When neither Tate nor Rafe spoke, Mia’s heart broke. For the millionth time.
“Well, that’s just perfect.” She looked at Tate and smiled through the tears in her eyes. “Bet that happened even faster than you thought it would. Only it wasn’t just him.” She made a careless gesture at Rafe. “It was both of you. You both abandoned me. How lucky can a girl get?”
“Mia?” Joe asked, concerned and confused, his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t understand—”
“I’m done.” She turned away from the men who would obviously always choose each other first, and looked at Joe. “I won’t accept anything less than 150 percent in any of my relationships anymore. And this time, I’m going to be the one to walk away.”
She kept her head high and her pace steady as she finally put the past behind her.
Rafe tried to doze in the ER, but no matter how he positioned himself, he couldn’t get comfortable. Something hurt almost everywhere. But he’d refused the painkillers, because, well, the physical pain was a distraction from the far more debilitating emotional pain slicing away at his insides.