Briggs (Carolina Reapers 7)

I glared at him. “That’s not true,” I whispered, my chest splitting open.

“Isn’t it?” Pain flashed through his eyes, but I could barely register it through the hurt lashing at my soul. “You live in New York. I live in Charleston. I’m never moving, you’re never moving. We were cursed from the second you lied to me about your age.”

“I didn’t lie to you!” I screamed, letting the raw pain leak in my words. “You assumed, and for fuck’s sake, Cormac, I thought we were past that.” I thought we were past so many things…he loved me.

Or at least, he’d told me he had.

“You lied,” I whispered, and he tilted his head. “You told me you loved me,” I said, wiping away my tears. “But you don’t. You couldn’t possibly.” He parted his lips like he might protest, but I held my hand up. “If you actually loved me, you wouldn’t keep holding the past against me. You wouldn’t keep blaming me for everything. And you certainly wouldn’t stand here and rip me to shreds over a situation that I have absolutely no control over.”

“Bristol,” he whispered my name, but it was my turn to show him my back.

And I didn’t spare him a second look as I rushed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I locked it for good measure, wishing like hell I would’ve locked up my heart. Because this? This was the kind of hurt I didn’t know if I could come back from.

Somewhere between crying into my pillow and silently raging at the world, I’d fallen asleep. The bright morning sunlight streaming through my windows woke me up, and even though I felt like I’d been hit with a truck, I somehow managed to get out of the bed.

I slipped on a robe and unlocked the door, expecting to find Cormac on the couch.

He wasn’t there.

There was a note on the kitchen counter.

Crossland came with the helicopter. He’ll be back for you.

Cormac was gone.

17

Cormac

I rolled my beer between my palms as we sat in the corner booth at Scythe. Reapers had been coming here long enough that the patrons left us the hell alone, which was pretty perfect right now since I wasn’t fit company for anyone.

“You thinking about drinking that? Or just peeling the label?” Maxim asked, pausing midway through his question to wink at a girl across the bar.

I didn’t bother answering him.

It had been ten days since I’d missed the game. Not just any game, the game. Game seven of the conference finals. One game away from making the Stanley Cup finals. The series that was currently being broadcast on the massive television Sawyer’s wife, Echo, had purchased for the bar, thinking it would be the Reapers on tonight for game one.

While I was counting, it had been nine days since I’d left Bristol in that cabin in the Catskills. Cross had shown up that morning, taken one look at my face, and offered to get me out of there before his sister woke up. I’d gotten in his helicopter with zero regret.

Clean breaks were better, right? If that was the truth, then why the hell did it feel like I’d pulverized my soul? I missed her with every single breath. There had been at least a few dozen times where I’d reached for my phone, just to stop myself from hitting that little green button.

A collective gasp sounded around the bar, and every head at our table swiveled toward the screen just as the replay hit.

“Nice save,” Sawyer muttered, drumming his fingers on the table.

The rest of us grunted in agreement.

“It’s like a fucking funeral over here,” Caspian noted as he set down six bottles of some microbrew, somehow managing not to spill a single one. He turned his baseball cap backward and slid into the booth next to me, taking one of the bottles for himself.

Cannon ignored him, looking away from the television only to stare at his wife, who was sitting at the bar with Langley.

Brogan took one of the bottles and downed it without a single word. Not that I could blame him, seeing that his old team was currently on the screen.

“It’s not exactly cause for celebration,” Maxim leaned across the table and grabbed a beer.

Caspian shrugged.

That earned him more than a little side-eye, even from Axel.

“What?” Caz took a long swallow of his beer. “There’s always next year. The way I see it, we’re damned lucky to do what we do. Does it sting that we were that close,” he pinched his fingers so they nearly touched, “and couldn’t get there? Absolutely. But…”

We all stared at him.

He cringed. “You’re right. It fucking sucks. I hope they both lose.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Axel raised his bottle, and we all tapped in.

“I’m sorry—” I started.

“Shut the fuck up,” Maxim interrupted, rolling his eyes. “I swear, if I have to listen to you apologize one more time, I’m going to cut my own ears off.”