Considering I’m missing my brother, need to look at hiring someone to balance our books while he’s MIA, and have a club to run and a potential rival to keep on top of, his horoscope is low on my list of concerns. I’d gladly welcome a fight with my brother because then he’d fucking be here. In fact, the second he shows back up, I’ll hug him, then chew him out for ditching without notice.

There has to be a simple explanation for where he’s gone. Thinking about missing people and crime and his life being at risk is too much for my feeble brain to wrap around, and the only way to keep my cool is to remind myself of how unlikely it is.

We’re two unknown brothers who opened a business. We don’t have a lot of money, we’re not important, we don’t get involved with bad people.

Colin has just forgotten to check in. And charge his phone. And return to his place. They’re all totally normal things that can be explained away.

Without a word, Lars puts down his mug, then steps closer and pulls me into a hug. “He’s okay.”

“He fucking better be.” I refuse to think of the alternative.

***

Come the fuck on, Colin, we have a horoscopic altercation to get to. Another night, another full club, another day of looking over my shoulder, sure I can feel eyes on me.

I’m frustrated, worried, and so damn horny with no desire to get that energy out.

I fucking hate it here.

Lars has been gone longer than he said he’d be, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting some distance from me moping over my brother.

I scrub my hands down my face, frustration getting the better of me. Where the fuck is Colin? All this worry can’t be good for me—doesn’t he care about my health? It’s almost like he’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be the considerate one. He’s left me to flail. I don’t like flailing. Especially in a club we’ve put our whole souls into that has only just opened. This is a flail-free zone.

“Brothers are the fucking worst.” I stalk back to the desk, glimpsing the irritating feature about Saint Clare’s still open on my computer screen.

It only pisses me off more.

The guy did his job. The write-up is a glowing review of the club and everything I’ve accomplished. It doesn’t matter how many times I mentioned Colin in that fucking interview, he was only given one small line at the bottom. Every time I reread what’s on the screen, my anger creeps higher, and I’m fully expecting to rage email that journalist at some point.

The following feature can be all about how fucking unhinged I’ve gotten.