One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(81)

Putting my earbuds in, I press play on one of my go-to lists. When “Three Little Birds” rings out, I rip them out like they’re on fire.

Nope.

Eleven-fifty-four.

The day is almost over.

I shrug against my pillow.

Swallowing against the increasing tightness beneath my rib cage, I turn on my stomach to get some shut eye.

Facing her pillow, I run my eyes down the vacant space beside me.

Normally, she’d be lying there, talking randomly, animatedly, droning on about something while running her fingers along my skin, laughter filling my room when she finally drew the reaction she wanted from me.

Even if I’m grounded in the club capacity, I have plenty to do. A thousand books to read, minimum. Bird business to conduct, which means we probably won’t run into each other. Then again, we likely will. It’s inevitable. I’ll have to get Sean to give me the heads-up when she’s around to make things easier for her. Not that it will be hard for her since I just ensured she’ll hate me.

Toss.

She’s got the plant and Sean.

Catch.

She’s got Sean.

Squeeze.

Discarding the ball, I move to sit at the edge of the bed, ears perking up for any sign she’s with him.

Is she with him?

That thought begins to gnaw at me as a rare, raw type of jealousy threatens at the idea that he’s stealing my fucking time with her.

She wouldn’t do that.

It’s not his day.

But as of a few hours ago, the time is no longer mine.

I did this.

Made it this way.

No choice.

Craning my neck toward the wall that separates our rooms, I glare at it.

If she is with him . . .

Fuck that noise.

Denial is ripped from me completely when a foreign type of possessiveness overtakes me, and my heart starts to thrash in confirmation. Jerking on some sweats, I walk over to the wall and cup my ear, straining for any sound.

Nothing.

Fuck this.

Stalking down the hall, I slap open Sean’s bedroom door with my palm to see him alone, flipping channels, boots crossed on his bed, a beer in hand. He flashes me his signature smirk. “Sup man?”

Relief skitters through me as I jerk my chin. His lips quirk further as his eyes drift back to the TV. “I’m thinking maybe someone doesn’t want to say he’s sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

I turn to leave, and he calls to my retreating back. “She’s worth a lot more than an apology.”

I turn on a dime. “Yeah, what’s she worth to you?”

He uses my own tactic against me with silence—stupid question.

I glare over at him as he sips his beer. “What the fuck are we doing?”

“You know what you’re doing, same as me. We’re crossing an uncrossable line.” His shoulders roll forward with the weight of the admission. “But the difference between us is that I’ve already made peace with it,” he states in a tone that contradicts that declaration. “It’s harder for you, Dom, and no big mystery why.” His expression hardens into a look reserved only for those he’s about to pull the trigger on. “So, I’ll give you a fucking pass, brother, just this once, for thinking you’ll ever be able to rip that woman from my arms—especially if you so recklessly ever push her into them.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” I ask, tilting my head as if I didn’t hear him right.

“She’s my fucking girlfriend, asshole, and she’s destroyed right now because of you. She wouldn’t let me console her, so what the fuck kind of reception did you expect?”

He pulls on his beer as if he didn’t just threaten me for the first time in our lives, and I let that shit resonate before realizing I’m in his room for the exact same reason.

Regardless, the resentment that he did threaten me kicks in just as he speaks up. “I love you, brother,” he sighs, “more than any other, that’s the truth, but it’s not me you’re fighting. So, please don’t twist me into the enemy to justify the turmoil going on in that brilliant fucking brain of yours. It’s the decision that’s killing you softly, so make it and make your own peace with it, for all our sakes.” The warning returns in his eyes. “But know this. Your decision no longer has any bearing on mine. The time for that has fucking passed.”

I linger in his doorway for a beat, seeing the toll the decision is taking on him before turning, gut lurching as I recall the damning words I hurt her with.

Do I even have a decision to make peace with anymore?

The realization that that choice is no longer mine takes hold as the ache I’ve been dismissing slams into me.

By the time I reach my room, I’m on fucking fire with regret. Shedding my sweats, I pull on some jeans as perspiration dots my hairline. Shoving into my boots, wallet tucked in my back pocket, keys in hand, anxiety propels me down the stairs as a nauseating unease sets in.

If I have to break into Roman Horner’s fucking house to take those words back, I will.

Reaching the foot of the stairs, I’m freed of that burden when I see her on the couch stroking Brandy with absent fingers as she stares up at the ceiling. The sight of her tear-streaked face and blotched cheeks has remorse doing its thing.

Fuck this.