Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Ah, God. If that’s not a punch to the feels, I don’t know what is.

I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

“But if I call you for that bleach, you’d better damn well bring it to me. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say, laughing. Because apparently violence is funny when you’re lightheaded and heartbroken and heaving sobs.

Olivia gets up. “Here. Elijah, I have something I want you to give to Luke. I’ll be right back.”

My brother and I watch as his girlfriend disappears upstairs.

“You know what she’s talking about?” I ask.

“Not a damn clue.” Eli nudges me. “You gonna let me feed you? You’ll need your strength for all that make-up sex you and Luke’ll be havin’ tonight.”

I laugh again.

Thank God for brothers.

“I thought you didn’t want to know about what we do behind closed doors.”

“I don’t. But I gotta get food in that belly somehow. If sex gets that done, I’ll take it.”

“Sex,” I say, sighing. “Or grave digging.”

It’s Eli’s turn to laugh. “I’mma be digging right there beside you.”

“You bring the booze. I’ll bring the shovels.”

He looks at me. “We’ll make this right, Grace. I promise.”

I want to believe him. So damn badly.

I want to hope he’s right.

But hope is a foreign language to a heart that’s been broken.Chapter Thirty-TwoLukeI’m expecting Eli’s visit. But I still jump when I hear the knock at the door.

It’s more like a pound.

“Luke!” he calls, pounding again. “Open the damn door.”

Spearing a hand through my hair, I get up from the kitchen table. Chair screeching against the floorboards.

I ain’t slept a wink. Can’t remember a time I felt worse. Even coming out of shoulder surgery—the physical pain, the pain of knowing deep down I wasn’t ever gonna play major league ball again—I felt fifty times better than this.

Walking to the front door, I take a deep breath. I am doing the right thing here. I am sparing Gracie worse hurt down the road by hurting her now.

Sometimes doing the right thing hurts. But only at first. When she’s had time to step back, get some perspective, see our relationship for what it was—Gracie will understand.

She’ll understand when she gets scooped up by a guy who can do her dreams justice.

I grab at the back of the sofa as I pass it—feeling an invisible punch to the gut at the idea of my girl being with someone else.

She’s not your girl.

A girl like that isn’t meant for a guy like me. Seems so obvious now.

How the hell did I let things go so far?

Straightening, I reach for the front door. Wrap my hand around the knob. I tighten my ab muscles. Anticipating an actual punch to the gut.

Only what I deserve. Even if I am doing the right fucking thing.

Is Eli gonna legit kill me? Break my jaw at least?

Tell me to fuck off and never call him again?

I don’t want to lose Elijah as a friend. I love him. Dearly.

Only one person could ever make me put our friendship at risk.

I hope—hope—Elijah understands why I had to let Gracie go.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the burn in my eyes. Then I turn the knob and open the door.

Eli looks me right in the eye. His gaze—can’t tell if it’s anger or annoyance or sympathy in it.

He’s got a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

Huh. Guess he’s gonna get me drunk. Strangle me, maybe. Then put my severed head in that bag so he can bury it away from my body. Less chance of the police making a positive ID that way.

Eli’s eyes cut to the pair of rocking chairs on the porch.

“Sit your ass down,” he says, thrusting the Jack into my hands. He pulls two cigars from his pocket. “You got some explainin’ to do, brother.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Look down at the bottle.

I don’t deserve this kindness.

“I do. I’m sorry, E.”

I think about offering to get some glasses. But then I remember I just tore out Gracie Jackson’s heart.

What the fuck do glasses matter now?

What the fuck does anything matter? Somewhere she’s hurting because of me.

Closing the door behind me, I step out onto the porch. The old wooden floor creaks beneath my barefoot steps.

Even in the shade, the midday heat and humidity are suffocating. I already feel myself starting to sweat.

Falling into a rocking chair, I crack open the bottle.

Eli sits next to me. He grabs a cutter and his stainless steel lighter from the bag he’s put at his feet.

I take a pull straight from the bottle while he clips the heads off two Cohiba cigars.

The whiskey don’t feel good on my empty stomach.

Aw, fuck you, Jack Daniels.

I take another pull.

Eli passes a cigar and the lighter to me. “It’s not a competition, you know. You don’t need to be jealous of guys like Greyson Montgomery.”