My heart was pounding.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Drake.”
It just kept thumping. Loud. Strong.
Using the poker, he shoved himself out of the seat, and even across the room, he seemed to loom over me. He didn’t look good. He had a different edge, harder, more desperate.
He moved toward me.
I backed up. “Stop.”
He didn’t acknowledge me, just put the poker down and resumed his path toward me.
“Come on.” His tone was brisk. His eyes tired. His hair looked like he’d been raking his fingers through it nonstop, and underneath the edge, the desperation, the roughness, was exhaustion. He was resigned—I saw it now as he passed me.
He always had a purpose—everything he did, every move he made. Now, he was just trudging along. Life had weighed him down.
The round face he and his brother both shar
