Out of the Ashes (The Game 5)

“Is this seat taken?”

I shook my head without looking up and scrolled past a dozen or so pictures from the first vacation Tate and I took together. We’d aced vacations. Even when we were dirt poor back in the day, we’d managed to get away at least twice a year. From backpacking in the Catskills and fleeing a roach-infested hostel in Mexico to celebrating a promotion at a luxury resort in Key West and chilling on a beach in Hawaii.

Next year, we were supposed to celebrate my fortieth birthday in Europe together.

A sharp pain stabbed at me, and I exhaled heavily and put down my phone.

Tell me how to move on, Tate. Tell me how to forget you.

Of-fucking-course our vacations had been amazing, I thought to myself with a bitter chuckle. There’d been no worries of sharing him with someone else when we were away.

I sniffled and blinked past the sting in my eyes, and I drained the rest of my beer in one go.

“Are you okay?”

Yeah, mind your fucking business.

“Yup.” I cleared my throat and glanced toward the bartender. But it put the man next to me in my periphery, and it couldn’t be. I side-eyed him and felt a bolt of shock tear through me. You gotta be fucking kidding me. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that this was a coincidence.

I’d only seen Franklin from afar before, but I knew with every part of me that this was him. I was sitting right next to Franklin Townsend, the motherfucker who’d hammered the last nail into the coffin that was Tate’s and my relationship.

Why was he here? He didn’t live nearby. No way. If he didn’t live in Georgetown where his daughter went to school, he lived in one of the upscale suburbs.

I absently signaled to the bartender when he looked my way, but I couldn’t push Franklin out of my sight. He was here for a reason, and it had to do with me.

Had Tate bitched to him about me? Was Franklin feeling sorry for the guy and decided to come have a talk with me? What the fuck did I know? But he wasn’t knocking on my door. He’d shown up in a random bar where I just happened to be. I didn’t come here regularly enough for him to predict my visits. I didn’t live on a schedule.

Additionally, Franklin wasn’t looking at me in any peculiar way whatsoever.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

I cleared my throat and held up my beer. “Another one of these, thanks.”

Franklin was fiddling with the napkin on which his whiskey drink rested.

“I’ll have one of those too, whatever it is.” I pointed to Franklin’s drink, wanting a conversation starter. Because I was gonna get to the bottom of why he was here. Then maybe I could smash his fucking face in.

“Oh, uh, it’s a Vieux Carré,” Franklin supplied.

Sure, let’s go with that. Never heard of it before.

The bartender got busy, and I shifted a little in my seat.

“You look how I feel.” A bald-faced lie, but clearly I needed another approach to start a conversation.

He eyed me hesitantly. “I don’t suppose you feel amazing.”

I smiled faintly. “Horseshit would’ve been an upgrade.”

He winced. “That bad. Well.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of his drink.

I let my gaze travel his form, and I hated him a little bit more for every second that ticked by. He was…lethally handsome. Polished. Brown hair, pale brown eyes, a five-o’clock shadow that softened his sharp features, and a sprinkling of grays at his temples. He was older than me by at least a few years.

Tate was polished too, in a more rugged way. He spent hundreds of dollars on hair products to get a man-made I-just-rolled-out-of-bed look. He hid two full sleeves of rock ‘n’ roll-inspired tattoos underneath designer shirts that fit his body perfectly.

I was just plain rugged.

“It’s been a trying day,” Franklin said at last. “I asked my wife for a divorce.”

Something died inside me. Like dumping a bucket of ice-cold water on a tiny candle that was already struggling.

I didn’t need to hear another word. I knew the rest. He’d finally found the balls to admit he was gay, and now he was divorcing his wife to be with my ex.

“That sucks.”

Fuck my life.

I got my drink and my beer and handed over my credit card. “You might as well start a tab.”

Oh, fuck Franklin’s fucking drink choice. It happened to be delicious. Whiskey, cognac, something sweet—vermouth, and…I didn’t know what else.

“It was long overdue,” Franklin responded quietly. “Now I just have to figure out how to start over.”

I was sure he’d figure things out with Tate.

I frowned to myself and took another swig of the cocktail. Didn’t Franklin know who I was? Or maybe he needed my name to connect the dots. But if Franklin had befriended Tate on social media, he should’ve seen my picture somewhere.