13. Sam

Chapter 13

Sam

B y the time we walk out of the Emergency Room, the biker convention has broken up. Only a few remain and they all laser us with hateful glares as we pass them. On my way to the restroom a little while ago, I overheard one of the nurses say that the guy Brixton beat to shit has a slight concussion but no other issues. They’re keeping him for observation but after that, he’ll be good to go.

I’d say Brixton dodged a bullet but he’s so broken, I doubt a bullet would have done any worse damage.

We push through the revolving glass doors, the driveway to the Emergency Room clear of ambulances, flashing red lights, and sirens. I twist my head left and right.

No paparazzi, either.

A relieved breath slips from my lips.

Brixton barely spoke a word when the nurse was sewing him up. He didn’t want to be numbed, either.

Masochist.

Except he doesn’t take joy in the pain, he needs the pain as a reminder of what he thinks he destroyed. It’s probably why he takes so many risks and does stupid shit. In his mind, the repercussions are all punishment for his sins—and he feels that he deserves every ounce of it.

My heart clenches every time I think it could be me in his position, suffering the same heartache.

And that only makes me feel worse because I can clearly remember the hope in his expression that night we were in the chapel together. He was different…lighter, but still sensitive to what I was going through.

So different from the closed-off, rage-filled man standing next to me now.

Brixton pulls out his phone and stabs the screen. I stare at the angles of his chiseled features, his profile glowing in the moonlight. His hair hangs low over his eyes, stubbled jaw tight.

“Where the fuck did they go?” he mutters.

Shoot. That’s right. The Escalades are both gone. I text Chase to see if he’s back at my place. Since he’s barely home with his residency to justify a place of his own, it made more sense for him to crash with me when he’s not at the hospital.

But while I love having my brother around, the last thing I want to do is recount the details for him once I finally get home. Tonight quickly went from a happy celebration to a literal throw down, and all I want to do is put it all behind me for a few hours.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Ben set up a press conference for tomorrow at noon.

My shoulders slump. Yep, a few hours is all I’m gonna get.

Okay .

A second later, my phone pings again.

And you need to show up together. Until this all dies down, you guys are joined at the hip.

I grit my teeth. It’s what I signed up for but damn. Brixton’s sharp voice cuts into my thoughts.

“What the fuck, Ben? You just left us here? How am I getting back to the hotel?”

He paces the sidewalk, stalking back and forth, his eyes glowing with anger. “What do you mean, I’m not going to the hotel?”

Oh, shit.

A cold sensation snakes around my stomach and squeezes hard.

Brixton looks over at me, his eyes wide. And in that second, my gut plummets into my shoes.

Because I know exactly what Ben is telling him right now.

He’s not going to the hotel because he’s coming home with me.

“So I’m supposed to fucking live with him now?”

I scrub a hand down the front of my face.

What the hell did I get myself into?

There’s a little bit more grumbling before Brixton finally ends the call and looks at me.

“I guess we’re gonna be roommates.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” I shoot back. “I have to share my space with you now.”

He takes a few steps toward me. The scent of his cologne bites into my air supply, forcing me to take him in. I resist the overwhelming ache to breathe, to let him infuse me.

I was stupid enough to do that once. I’d have to be a complete idiot to do it again.

“I gave you an out. I told you to walk away. ”

His invisible grip on me tightens, daring me to push away.

“You know I can’t do that. I’m involved now,” I rasp.

Brixton’s lips curl into a snarl. “Who asked you to jump into the flames, Sammy? Didn’t you know you were gonna get burned?”

Disdain drips from his words, but the lust glittering in the depths of those blue eyes tells a very different story.

He’s close. So close, I could reach out and trace my fingertip over the curve of his mouth. But touching him would ignite a spark so deep, I think the flames would incinerate us both.

I’ve never felt such a mixture of disgust and sympathy for one person at the same time. It’s like I want to hug him tight for a minute only to throttle him hard in the next.

It’s an all-out tug of war with my emotions.

Impossible to win.

“We should call an Uber.” I finally break the silence. “You need to get some rest before tomorrow morning. Clear your head.”

Exactly what I need to do.

He doesn’t respond, only walks to the edge of the curb and sinking onto it, his long legs folded up by his chest.

I pull out my phone and order the car. Then I send a text to Chase.

I’m bringing Brixton home. Make sure you’re in your room when we get there.

A second later, my phone pings.

Holy shit. Are you seriously banishing me to my room?

I let out a deep sigh.

Yes .

Because I can’t risk him seeing the guy who’s got his dead brother’s heart beating inside of him.

Brixton is on the edge just knowing who has his heart. If he came face to face with Chase? I don’t know what the hell he’d do next. He already looks at me like he wants to kill me. He might actually do it if he’s pushed too far.

And that would send him straight over the edge.

Not risking it tonight.

My place is about twenty-five minutes from the hospital. The Uber driver doesn’t speak to us. He doesn’t even bother to look in the backseat once we slide inside. Brixton sits back and closes his eyes.

I watch him for the entire trip, memorizing every detail of his face and body because I’m clearly a headcase. The guy detests me and his actions make it pretty damn clear, but I can’t shake the feeling that something brought us together again tonight.

Maybe it’s as simple as me stepping in to stop him from committing manslaughter.

But there’s some weird sensation swirling in my gut that tells me all of this happened for a reason.

A few hours ago, though, I thought it might be a very different reason.

One that would be a lot more carnal.

I stroke my beard, watching him toy with the silver rings on his fingers. One on his left hand is a simple band. The two on his right hand have some kind of design or engraving on them. I squint but can’t make them out in the darkness.

His fingers clench into balls, knuckles white. My eyes move toward his face in time to see his mouth twitch. His neck is taut, the vein that runs along the side bulges against his skin.

It’s like staring at a rubber band being stretched to the point of snapping .

The car finally rolls up to the curb outside my building. I give Brixton a nudge and his eyes fly open, glassy and hopeful for a split second until they clear with the realization that none of what he experienced tonight was a dream.

He pushes open the door and staggers out to the curb. I slide out after him and dig out my keys to the front door. He follows me inside, wordless, which throws me for a loop because I’m used to him being a caustic prick with his snide comments and toxic commentary.

It’s a nice change but also eats at me a little bit.

Maybe he had some kind of epiphany during that car ride that has him thawed out.

We take the elevator to the top floor and I unlock my door. He walks into the foyer then moves into the massive living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lights of the city.

“Too bad they don’t pay you more so you can get a real penthouse,” he bites out.

My lips stretch into a tight smile. He is such an insufferable asshole.

Maybe the brother should have dug the knife in a little deeper at the hospital.

I give my head a quick shake. Jesus, now the air around him is poisoning my head, too.

“Thanks for that. I’m actually really comfortable here.”

Brixton paces around then looks at me with a lifted eyebrow. “Sure. It’s nice and cozy and small.”

I shrug. “How much space does a guy need?”

He runs his finger over the black granite countertop. “Bigger is always better. You never got that memo?”

“So we’re talking apartment size…and ego size, yeah?”

With a flash of his eyes, Brixton stalks across the room to where I’m standing. “Is that supposed to be a joke? Because we’re not friends. Now or ever.”

“I have no desire to be friends with you, Brixton. I’d rather stick a hot fire poker in my eye.”

“Good. Just remember, this is an arrangement. And a very fucking temporary one.” His lips lift into a nasty smile. “I’m counting down the days that I have to be stuck with you.”

I shift my weight, the hardwood floor creaking under my feet. “I can’t imagine anyone with any shred of sanity wanting to be around you .”

Brixton squares his shoulders and circles me like a jungle predator. “And you’d put me to sleep with all your do-goodness. I’d taint you, Angel. Stain you so bad, you’d never get clean.”

“Jesus Christ, what a fucking charmer you are.” I push past him, a sharp jolt zapping me as our shoulders collide. I pull open the refrigerator door, grab a bottle of water, and twist off the cap before taking a long sip.

It does nothing to cool the flames climbing in my chest.

“You’ve got a lot of hate in that body,” I say, placing the bottle on the counter. “It must rip you to shreds, the way you use it to tear down everyone who’s around you.”

Shock eclipses his smug expression for a split second. It doesn’t take him long to recover with another rage-filled zinger, though.

“I’d say you should fuck it out of me,” he growls. “But I bet a good boy like you doesn’t fuck, right? I bet your dick wouldn’t know the first thing to do in a hate-fuck situation. Isn’t that right, choir boy?”