Page 12 of Fated By Fire
He leans forward, his grin sharp. “You’re turning into Dad. Trust me, it’s not a good look.”
I glare at him, but he’s right, and we both know it. My father spent his life behind his desk. Craven Industries was his entire world until—
I push myself to my feet abruptly, grabbing my jacket off the back of my chair. “Fine. But make it quick.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re at a bar a few blocks from the Towers. It’s one of Dorian’s usual spots—dark, moody, and packed with people who don’t care who we are as long as we’re buying drinks.
I sit at the bar, nursing a whiskey while Dorian flirts shamelessly with the bartender.
“Give us a couple of tequilas,” he says, making my head snap up. “Some of the good stuff. Thatanejobottle.” He points to the display.
“No. No fucking way, Dorian,” I say firmly. But there’s already a shot glass sliding down the counter toward me.
“Come on, bro.” Dorian slaps my shoulder. “Live a little.”
“I live enough,” I mutter, glaring down at the small, clear glass that’s brimming with liquid—and potential disaster.
“Do it. Just one.” He won’t let up. He’s holding his own glass between thumb and forefinger. “Don’t be a pussy.”
If I don’t do it, he’s going to hound me until I leave.
“Fuck it.” I grab the glass and knock it down, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Dorian is watching me. “Happy now?” I ask him.
“I wasn’t asking you to finish it in one go, asshole. We sip this shit nowadays. Where do you live? In a cave?”
“Yes. The one at the top of Craven Towers.” I tip my glass upside down on the surface of the bar, watching him lift his glass to his lips and barely wet them with the liquor. “Who’s the pussy now?”
“Get him another,” he tells the bartender.
“No,” I say.
“Shut up,” he retorts. “And loosen your tie, for fuck’s sake.” He’s reaching for my shirt collar. I smack his hands away. “You look like you’re going to a fucking funeral.”
Exhaling an annoyed breath, I unfasten my top button with one hand while reaching for the shot glass with the other. I empty the glass and sit back on my bar stool.
“I said sip it, dickhead. Like this.” He touches his lips with his glass again. “It’s supposed to last while you savor it.”
“That is the most ridiculous shit I ever heard. Nobodysavorstequila. It’s the Devil’s brew; you put it behind you like a bad memory. Besides, I already have a drink.” I reach for the tumbler of whiskey I’d set on the counter. I take a sip. Together with the two shots, the amber liquid is giving me a pleasant buzz. I definitely need to leave after this.
Two women approach us, drawn by my brother’s charm. The guy’s a walking chick magnet. They’re beautiful, their laughter light and infectious, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“Hey,” one of them says, nodding at the seat beside him. “Mind if we join you?”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better.” His smile is easy. Mine is not. They give me a wary glance before focusing back on Dorian.
“Don’t mind my brother. He’s a bit uptight. Probably because he’s the richest guy in Seattle,” he tells them. Two pairs of eyes swivel back toward me. “Even God wishes he had this guy’s bank balance.”
Fucking great.
Dorian’s in his element, but I’m left cold, my thoughts drifting back to Jessica. It’s those goddamn eyes—they’re all-consuming, and I don’t understand why.
“So… Caleb, is it?” the blonde one is saying, her eyes roving over me in a predatory way. “Come here often?”
Jesus, do people still say that?
“Never.” I finish my drink and set the glass down, pushing myself to my feet. Dorian glances up, his brow raised.
“Leaving already?”
