Page 74 of Brutal Sin
“Great. We can move on, then.” Cassie gave her co-conspirators a warning look, wordlessly reiterating how pathetic and temperamental he was. “Next on the list is the possibility of an under-age dance night.”
That was his cue to zone out of the conversation. His field of fucks was well and truly barren. Everything felt raw and uncomfortable. Even answering the simplest of questions. All because of Ella—a woman who hadn’t called and evidently had no plans to see him again.
She’d forgottenhim.
And with all his determination and focus, he still couldn’t seem to do the same withher.
Turned out, his insurance policy was a piece ofshit.
He tore open the last envelope, this time slower, drawing out the need to keep his hands occupied. There were no folded pages this time. He parted the opening and sank his hand in to retrieve the tiny slip of paper buried inside.
A newspaper clipping.
He read the heading and wondered if he’d fallen into a momentary hallucination. He blinked, blinked again, and re-read the words. He stared for long moments, his chest tightening, bile rising in his throat.
“Brute?” Shay’s voice was distant. A million milesaway.
“Bryan?” Cassie pleaded. “What isit?”
He slid the paper back into the envelope and ran a hand over his beard, hoping to encourage his lunch to stay in his gut. “Nothing.” His response was static. “Can you finish up without me? I need to sort out this mail and get started on the refund forElla.”
Ella. Fucking Ella. At a time like this, she was still at the forefront of hismind.
Pinched brows aimed at him. Worried eyes, too.
“What’s going on?” Leo glanced at the envelopes in Bryan’s hand. “Is there something in the mail I need to know about?”
“No.” He was on his own with this. Like he always had been. Like he’d always wanted to be. He never should’ve contemplated a deviation. “I’ll fill you in later if anything becomes important.”
He made for the upstairs staircase. Once he was out of view, he ran, taking the steps two at a time, pounding out the motions until he was behind the closed door of the office and leaning against the hardwood.
He was done. So fucking done with life and work and people.
The mail crunched in his closing fist as devastation seared a scorching trail through his veins. Every inch of him was out of control—his mind, his pulse, his tingling limbs.
He’d never needed something more than he did right now. And for the life of him, he didn’t know what that something was. He only knew there was a hole in his chest. A massive, gaping crater, screaming to be filled.
He couldn’t breathe through it. Couldn’t think around the pain of it. Everything was closing in—his mistakes, his insecurities. Every little thing he hated about his existence bore down on him with enough force to crushhim.
Nothing gave himhope.
Not. One. Thing.
All he had was the dizzying punishment of all the mistakes he’dmade.
He rushed toward the desk, grabbed a fresh envelope from the drawer and scrawled Pamela across the front. Those six letters were a death sentence.
No. They’d been a life sentence. Years upon years of unwanted sterile independence.
He transferred the newspaper clipping into the unripped envelope, making sure not to read the words demanding his attention, then encapsulated the information by sealing the back. He stood staring at the name, hating it, his anger building, growing.
He tore his attention away and scoured the perfect alignment on the desk. The pens, Post-Its, and stationery items all had their own place, their own function in the world. While he remained in limbo, stuck thinking about what he was goodfor.
In one harsh swipe of his arm he sent everything flying, the symmetry transforming into a scattered mess on the floor. The destruction brought relief, the tiniest flicker of havoc sating his self-loathing.
He did it again, this time pulling the drawer from the desk and throwing it across the room. And again, with the second drawer. And again, with the filing trays.
His blood raced with dizzying speed, the lightheaded delirium righting some of his wrongs.
