Page 317 of Face Off

“I’m fine.”

“That sounded convincing enough.”

I push Wuthering Heights off my chest and sit up. The room moves slightly before settling. “What happened?”

“Briggs is coming home. His flight lands this afternoon.”

I rub one hand over my face as he gives me the pickup time. “How is he?”

Cade goes quiet for a second. “He woke up quiet, Ry.”

The alcohol leaves my head faster than it should. “How quiet?”

“He agreed with everything we said. Apologized for taking too long to pack and thanked Bliss for helping him like he was checking out of a fucking hotel.” Cade exhales. “Bliss knows about Lyric by the way. Took an additional two hours calming her down before I could enjoy my wedding night inside my wife instead of my wife inside a jail.”

I laugh. “Welcome to marriage with a Bennett.”

Cade laughs then calms. “Listen, he won’t talk to any of us. He keeps saying he’s fine, but I’ve known that asshole too long to believe him.”

“Did he ask for me?”

“No, but every time somebody asks what he needs, he says he wants to go home.” Cade’s voice lowers. “Home means you, brother, so be ready.”

I look toward the city beyond my windows while sleep, mezcal, and Charm fall away beneath something more immediate.

“I stay ready.”

“I know.” Cade pauses. “That’s why I’m putting him on the plane.”

By the time I reach the airport that afternoon, I have consumed enough coffee to qualify as medically irresponsible and threatened half the staff in our building. Briggs gave me permission to handle his apartment, and I used that permission aggressively. Lyric’s access has been revoked. Her belongings were collected under building supervision and taken wherever she instructed them to go. Management understands she is not permitted inside Briggs’s apartment without him present, and security understands that testing me on this issue will create a problem none of them is paid enough to manage.

Pays to be rich and well known in this city.

I park near passenger pickup and watch travelers spill through the sliding doors beneath the terminal lights. Families reunite. Drivers load suitcases. A little girl launches herself into the arms of a man who drops to his knees in the middle of the sidewalk to catch her.

I look away.

Briggs appears several minutes later with sunglasses covering his bruised eye, a duffel hanging from one shoulder, and a suitcase rolling behind him. His backward KFU hat sits low over his forehead. He walks with the heavy, deliberate stride of a man who knows stopping will require him to feel everything following him.

I climb out and open the tailgate.

Briggs stops beside me. “You look like shit.”

“You were wearing sunglasses indoors.”

“We all process beauty differently.”

His joke arrives without enough energy to live. Mine doesn’t do much better.

“Get in the truck.”

“You missed me.”

“I missed having someone else to blame when the apartment smells weird.”

“That’s your cooking.”

“My cooking has seasoning.”