Lines of Defense

Ch. 11

ETHAN COLE

I push open the door to The Black Thorn, the bar I've made my second home these past few months. The dim lighting and the low hum of voices immediately settle something restless inside me. It's a typical Friday night—music pumping softly through the speakers, a few regulars hunched over their drinks at the counter, and the faint smell of whiskey in the air. I wave at Oliver, the bartender, and make my way to my usual spot in the corner, sinking into the worn leather seat.

After a long day of dealing with two clients and a preliminary trial that dragged on longer than necessary, the last thing I want is to head home. There's too much silence there, too much space for my thoughts to catch up with me. I nod at Oliver, who gives me a familiar look—one that says, Back again, huh?

I'm about to sip the bourbon he places in front of me when I feel a soft press against my cheek, warm lips lingering just long enough to make me smile. I know who it is before I even turn around.

Yvette.

She pulls back, her blonde bob bouncing slightly as she slips into the seat across from me. A playful grin dances on her lips. "Why's it taken you so long to come by, Ethan? I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

I chuckle, taking a slow sip of my drink. "Busy with work, as always."

"Work, huh?" She arches an eyebrow, not entirely buying it, but she lets it go. Yvette and I have always had this unspoken thing—a few drunken kisses, some heated glances that promised more than they ever delivered. We never cross that line, though. Somehow, it works better for us that way.

She leans forward, her blue eyes sparkling. "So, want anything special tonight?" Her hand lightly brushes against my arm, but I don't miss the tease.

I shake my head, holding up my drink. "I'm good for now."

She pouts a little, but I can tell she's not really upset. She's about to leave when my phone buzzes on the table, lighting up with a message.

Amelia: I'm coming to your house.

I stare at the words, my brow furrowing. Before I can even process what I'm reading, Yvette glances at the screen, a smile flickering across her lips, though there's a sharpness in her eyes now.

"That her?" she asks, the question layered with something more. "The reason you've been too busy to come around?"

I open my mouth to explain, to tell her it's not what she thinks, but Yvette's already up, her hips swaying as she walks away with a slight huff. I shake my head and grab my phone, dialing Amelia's number. This woman has a way of throwing my life into chaos without even trying.

She picks up on the second ring.

"What do you mean by 'you're coming to my house?'" I ask, trying to keep my frustration at bay. I wasn't exactly expecting company tonight.

There's a pause on the other end, followed by a sigh. "It's not like I have much of a choice," she says. "I know how worried you must be, so I'm doing you a favor. You know, so you don't stay up all night thinking I'm dead."

I roll my eyes. Classic Amelia—deflecting with sarcasm when she's scared. "Look, if you're worried about Beckham, just say that. But I'm not interested in sharing my apartment with you, Hart."

She lets out another sigh, this one deeper, as if she's already resigned to the fact that I'm not going to make this easy. "Too bad," she says lightly with an edge of impatience. "Because I'm already outside your door."

I sit up straight, my hand tightening around my phone. "What?"

"I'm outside," she repeats, nonchalant as ever. "Freya gave me your address. Thought I'd stop by and... you know, do you a solid by not dying alone."