“Axel, hurry up with that order,” Hale barks at me from the behind the bar. He waves a meaty hand toward a nearby table, his green eyes narrowed in my direction. The irritation coming from him is palpable. “They’ve been waiting to get their app for way too long,” he informs me.

I grit my teeth and fight the surge of frustration that wells in my chest. Fucking Hale. It’s the bitter mantra I’ve repeated over and over again the past couple of months since he, the last of my brothers, fell sick to the illness of love and forgot who they were.

I haven’t forgotten, though.

I’m still a Beckett, even if I’ve never been given due credit. Yeah, I’m only half-Beckett, but lately that’s a hell of a lot more than I can say for my brothers.

I grew up worshipping them and now it’s like I don’t even know who they are.

I shoulder the tray of food and weave my way through the tables toward the one in question. The black-haired dude with his back to the wall, an asshole with a popped collar, eyes me with derision. He or his kind wouldn’t have been let anywhere near this bar when we first opened it. Even our business, Fugitives, has changed since we turned it into a full-fledged restaurant and left the boozy portion to our cousins across the street, who run Outlaws.

Nothing is the same anymore. Nothing except me. The one left behind to deal with the ramifications of it all.

“Can we get more ketchup?” the basic blonde beside him says, holding up the bottle and waving it in my face. She’s a cookie cutter of several of the other girls sitting at the table with them. “There’s, like, almost none in here, and I can’t possibly eat these fries without it.”

“No, of course you couldn’t,” I say with a mock gasp, grabbing the bottle. I’m about ten seconds from snapping…I can feel it building in my chest, that unwavering anger that’s lodged deep in there. It’s going to erupt, and soon.

Dudebro’s brow furrows. “Hey, buddy. Lose the attitude. And go fetch that ketchup.”

I want to smash his entitled, stuck up face.

But I turn and walk away, as I hear the table snicker behind me.

I know the real source of my hostility. It’s the man behind the bar, not these customers. So I leave the table and replace their almost-empty ketchup in stony silence, then head toward the back to go roll more fucking silverware into fucking paper napkins.

This is my life now, why I exist. I work like a dog for someone who doesn’t give two shits about me, or carrying on the family name, the family tradition. Not that any of my half-brothers cared that much about me in the first place. But they used to honor and uphold the Beckett principles. One by one though, they all went down. Enslaved themselves to women. Lost their way.

But Hale…I was certain he wouldn’t fall like the rest of them. Until he met his fiancé and lost himself.

The restaurant is crowded—a typical Saturday afternoon for us now. I steal another look around, remembering for a moment the pride I had when Hudson, Hale, and I first started this joint. The three of us were equals, living like kings and raking in the cash.

We were supposed to be hard core, a real down and dirty dive bar for people like us.

Instead, we turned soft and went for the easy cash of playing it safe.

Hell, Hudson quit the family business entirely and moved to San Francisco. And then Hale met a woman and became docile, weak.

I don’t even recognize the man anymore. The guy who used to punch first, ask questions later is so different now. It’s fucking eerie, to be honest. His hotheaded passion made me believe in him, spurred me to follow him and rally by his side.

Now, ironically, I’m the last Beckett standing. The bastard son at that, the illegitimate heir. The sole resident of the Beckett home. Keeping the neighborhood safe from the assholes threatening to encroach on our people. Trying to figure out how the hell I can keep doing this by myself.

I didn’t sign up for this shit.

What am I doing here? Really doing here? Is this where I want my life to go?

No. No, it isn’t. Fuck this.

I drop the silverware I’m rolling into the bin and instead grab a beer from the fridge, popping it open. Though we don’t have hard liquor around anymore, due to not wanting to compete with Outlaws (my cousins’ bar across the street) per our agreement with them, we still provide beer and wine for customers who want a light drink with their meals. The cool swallow of beer glides down my throat.

“The fuck are you doing, Axel?” Hale says in a low murmur meant to warn me to knock it off. “Put the beer down and get back to work. This ain’t your lunch break. Still got a lot of shit to do—”

“Don’t care,” I reply. “I’m done being your little bitch boy.”

His eyes grow dark as he glares at me, and he tosses the dish rag he was gripping down on the bar. “Get in the back. Now.” The words are growled out.

I’m tempted to dish it out with him right here, to let everyone in the restaurant know how fucked up everything is in our lives and how I’m tired of following his orders. But instead, I grab the beer as I head to the back office. The only reason I’m not having it out in public is because I still have my own sense of pride and dignity.

I lean my backside against the desk and stare at Hale flatly. Silence fills the space as I take another long draw on my beer, not dropping eye contact.

Shit’s been brewing between us for a while now, things unspoken that just keep festering. When he dropped the bomb that he was engaged to Phoebe, I know he was pissed I wasn’t excited for him. Excited over what? To watch another Beckett man fall victim to a bleeding heart?

Fuck that. If he can’t be honest with himself about how love changed him, made him turn his back on his family and weaken his dedication to his own neighborhood that needs him, I can at least continue to be honest. I won’t paste on a fake smile and pretend everything is okay.

It isn’t.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Hale finally asks me. His nostrils are flaring. “It’s been nonstop attitude from you lately. I’m getting tired as fuck of dealing with it, bro.”

I don’t answer, taking my time and having another sip of the beer. “Ahhh…” I say. I’m provoking him. Trying to get him to yell. To see if there are any signs of the old Hale left in the shell of the man he is now.

When he reaches out to snag the beer from my hand, I clench it tighter, then push myself forward right into his face.

Hale’s whole demeanor snaps to, alert, body tight with tension—there’s that predator instinct he used to have. Back before he got pussy-whipped and went soft. I can feel him shaking to control it, to hold it back. “You’re fucked up,” he says, then steps back. “You don’t wanna be here? Fine. Get the fuck out.”

“You know why I don’t wanna be here?” I tell him. I make him wait until I drag another mouthful from the beer again to finish. “Because I’m ashamed of what this fucking place has become. And I don’t even recognize you anymore.” I can’t hide the hostility in my voice.

Hale’s jaw ticks. “Fuck you, Axel. You’re doing an awful lot of judging for someone who hasn’t been in my shoes.”

“No?” I drain the beer and plop the bottle on the desk. “You mean, having your brothers abandon you and your family because of women? Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know shit about that.”

“You’ve got a serious chip on your shoulder,” he growls. “No one fucking abandoned you. I’m still here working at the bar, as are you. We’re around each other all the damn time.”

“Oh, let me thank you for your graciousness,” I say with a deep, sweeping bow. “Keeping your bastard half-brother on as your slave to do all the menial tasks you can’t be bothered to do—so big of you.”

I can see his body tense like he’s fighting the urge to hit me. Part of me wants him to. Just to pierce the armor and bring him back to who he used to be. A loyal man to the family. A guy who gave a fuck about the poor and disenfranchised in our neighborhood.

Now he’s living in a fucking middle-class apartment with his fiancée.

“You’re weak,” I tell him, shaking my head. “You forgot where you came from. You left all your principles behind for a piece of pretty tail.”

“Don’t you ever fucking talk about her like that,” he growls. His fists are drawn up at his sides. “I will—”

“You’ll what? Hug it out with me?” I chuckle. “Isn’t that how the new Hale works?” I narrow my eyes at him. Of all the Becketts, I was closest to this man. We understood each other, respected each other. He was a hothead, yes, but he was ethical, principled. And he cared.

No one fucking cares about me anymore. I’m the leftover, the forgotten. The embodiment of our abandoned old neighborhood. Left behind in the past, a place too seedy and gritty to be seen in the light of day. No, not okay in my brothers’ new squeaky-clean lives.

The truth of that has been stuck in my chest for months now, slowly blackening its way to my heart.

“Get out before I do something I’ll regret,” Hale says between gritted teeth.

“I fucking quit,” I tell him. That ache in my chest has tightened so much that I can barely breathe. I’m angry, and hurt, and fuck all of this. I don’t need them. They never were really my brothers anyway.

I leave the office, not closing the door behind me, and grab the keys to my motorcycle. Hop on my bike and take off down the road. The fresh air should soothe me, but it doesn’t. I feel shattered inside.

It’s all done. The last tie that held me close to any of my half-brothers, I cut it today for good. All I have left is the house—the final piece of who we used to be. And since my dad, Butch, isn’t going to get out of prison any time soon, it’ll be my sanctuary.

Fuck all of them.

Turns out after all of their lecturing about family, about honor, about staying tough and holding out for the way shit used to be done—the right way—I was the only one who really meant any of it. Who believed in the bullshit my family spouted all those years.

I shift gears and speed the bike along faster. I don’t need them. The neighborhood can depend on me. I won’t abandon them. I’m no traitor.

I take the long ride home. The warm wind is whipping through my short hair, and I try to take solace in the fact that I’m done with all of that bullshit now. Whatever. I know my place, and I know my worth to the Beckett family name. Even if no one else bothers to recognize it. I don’t need their fucking acknowledgment anyway. I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it because I have pride.

I pull in and park the bike. Hop off and head down the street. The sunlight is bold mid-afternoon, and a few skinny boys are playing at the far side of the dead-end street with a dirty kickball. I can hear them cussing at each other and find a quick flash of the first genuine smile of the day creeping on my face. This neighborhood is safe enough for them to be out because I make sure to still keep it that way.

If I weren’t here to protect them, the gangs and thugs would have taken over. Drugs would be flowing everywhere on the streets. Elderly folk would be too afraid to leave their homes.

Mrs. Barker, one of the oldest residents in the neighborhood, waves at me from where she’s planting bright-colored flowers in her front garden. “Hi, Axel.”

I give her a nod and a tight smile; it’s all I got in me right now. Then I head down to my buddy Chris’s house. The concrete steps are crumbled and the paint is peeling on the siding, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s too busy being out living to worry about shit like that.

Chris is my go-to guy when I need to shake shit off and have fun. Like right about now. I rap on his battered screen door, avoiding the ripped mesh in the middle.

The door opens, and his slender face splits into a wide grin. He pats me on the shoulder. “’Sup, fucker? Looks like you need a drink.” He’s wearing a faded white tank top and jeans that hang loose on his skinny frame. For as much as he eats and drinks, he must have a high metabolism. I’ve seen him throw down three cheeseburgers in five minutes. But the guy never gains a pound. It’s crazy.

“I need more than one drink, man. Pub crawl?” I just want to drink until the miserable feeling that has my stomach in a knot goes away. Fuck everyone else. They don’t matter. I gotta let it go.

Chris nods, giving me a toothy smile. “Of course, man. Come on in. Give me a minute to get ready.”

* * *

I take a drag on my sixth beer and sigh with pleasure. This is what I fucking needed. Alcohol is coursing through my veins, and the anger and hurt I felt earlier has been replaced by a numb bliss.

I don’t care about the argument with Hale, about quitting the bar. In fact, I don’t give a shit about anything right now.

“This place is packed,” Chris says. We’re sitting at the bar of a ritzy hotel that has a wide variety of brew on tap. When his gaze lands on a young blonde tucked away on the far end of the bar, he gives her a slow wink, and I watch a flush crawl up her cheeks in response. Despite being so scrawny, Chris has a charm about him that draws women to him. He’s always crawling with pussy when we go out…a fact I somehow managed to forget about again until now. “Mmm, I think I found tonight’s entertainment.”

A loud round of cheering from the banquet hall across the hotel lobby draws my attention. I glance into the massive room and see clusters of tables decked in white cloth and massive floral centerpieces—a wedding party. The bride and groom are in the middle of the table of honor, with rich-looking people clad in designer outfits cheering and clapping as various members of the bridal party stand up and talk.

God, what a bunch of fucknuts. I elbow Chris and nod toward the event.

We watch for a moment while snooty assholes raise thin champagne flutes and wave them at the bride and groom, who are wearing clothes that likely cost more than my motorcycle.

“I wonder how good their food is,” he murmurs.

“It’s just overpriced dinner fare you could get at any restaurant around town.” Probably tiny portions anyway—plus, chefs love to put on airs and make shit sound fancier than it really is. Pomme frites? Just say French fries, jackhole.

Then I see her and my brain freezes.

It’s like everything just. Stops.

Rich, auburn hair piled in loose curls on her head. Her dress is a dark, dark red, the stain of blood, a striking contrast to her creamy skin, exposed in her strapless gown. Her eyes are wide and bright, and there’s a look in them as she glances around the room that knocks the air out of my lungs.

She’s fucking stunning. Stunning and totally out of my league.

“Aaaaand seems like you just found your own entertainment for the night,” Chris murmurs. “Let’s go over and say hi, introduce ourselves. Least we can do is be gentlemanly, right?”

We shoot each other glances. I’m wearing a plain black T-shirt, and Chris put on a flannel over his tank top. Jeans, motorcycle boots, scruffy faces. We’re certainly not in wedding mode.

I laugh. “This is crazy. You know that, right?”

He laughs too. “Fuck it, bro. Live for a night. Let’s see how the other side parties it up. At the very least, it’ll be a good time to make fun of them and steal some of their drinks.”

“Fuck it,” I say in agreement.

We throw money down on the bar top, and I chug the rest of my beer. Now that I’m out of the bar, I can hear soft wedding music playing in the background, bleeding into the lobby. People are up and mingling with each other, small clusters of pretention everywhere I look.

I lost sight of the girl, but she’s in here. I’ll find her again. I just want to look up close in her eyes for a moment, see what color they are, feel what it’s like to have their weight on me. Her sexy mouth is so lush and full, and tempting as hell.

“—just enchanting,” some old lady is saying to another old lady. She’s wearing a gown that has more pearls than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. “And the foie gras was exquisite. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, I know I would,” Chris says, grabbing a champagne flute from a stunned server and chugging it. “A little on the salty side though, I thought.”

The woman reels back and glares at him for the interruption. “I’m sorry, but do we know you?”

“Not yet.” He gives her a saucy wink. “But get me another drink and I might be down for some fun.”

I shake my head. “Dude. You’re insane.” Gotta love Chris for always being a fun time out.

The old lady flusters and stutters on her words, then honest to God clutches her pearls and walks off, the other in tow.

“You made her swoon,” I say. “That broad’s gonna need to change her panties now.”

“I have a way with the ladies,” he says unabashedly. “I don’t discriminate. Oldies can be hotties too.”

The champagne is fizzy and too sweet, and I don’t care. I take a swig of it and put the glass on a table by me. “Let’s hit the buffet.”

As we walk, I can feel heated glares on me, people who are blatantly scandalized by me and my friend crashing their wedding. But I ignore them, keep my gaze searching for her. The woman with the dark red hair. I don’t give a fuck what these rich twats have to say about me. They don’t know me.

“Axel,” Chris says, tugging my arm and pointing. “Look at that fucking cake. It’s, like, eight stories high.”

The cake is massive and covered in creamy white frosting, layers upon layers of ornate decorations that must have taken ages to do. The artist in me takes a moment to look at it and appreciate the effort. Not my thing, as I focus on drawing and tattooing, but hey, we all have our own outlet.

“Excuse me,” someone behind me says, tapping my shoulder.

I spin around to see a tall, black-haired man staring at me. His jaw is chiseled and his nose is a perfect slope—how much did he spend in plastic surgery to get this look?

I smirk at him.

“Yeah, can I help you, man?” I say politely, as if I have every right in the world to be here.

“Are you a guest?” His gaze rakes up and down me, his eyes proclaiming that he knows I’m not.

“Of course I am. Don’t you remember me? We met last year at the Huffenstuffer reunion at the yacht club downtown,” I drawl, and Chris smothers a chortle at the made-up backstory. “The tartar sauce was out in the sun too long, and everyone got sick and puked their caviar over the side of the boat.” I shake my head. “Tragedy, really. So many lives lost that day. So much caviar wasted.”

His eyes narrow, and another two men step up behind him. “You both need to get out of here. Right now. Or we’ll make you.”

Chris steps forward and bumps his chest against the guy. Skinny he is, but Chris will seriously fight to the death. He’s a scrapper. “Oh? You’re going to make us? And how is that?”

“Hey,” a lilting voice says, as a woman draws into our midst.

Her.

The mysterious redhead.

She has her lower lip drawn between her teeth as she glances at the Three Stooges, shaking her head. “We don’t need to create a scene,” she says gently. “Let’s try talking first.” And when her blue-eyed gaze turns to mine for the first time and our eyes meet, I know from the furious thumping of my heart that I’m in deep fucking trouble.