I’m six shots deep, and I’m fucking sure lucky number seven will be the one to make me forget…to make this shit go away. I raise my hand to signal the bartender—since when are there two of him? I blink twice and rub at my eyes to clear my vision. False alarm, still only the one guy.

He takes his time working his way down to my end of the bar, where I’ve been guzzling whiskey like my life depended on it. Which, I guess, in a way it does. Lord knows it’s the only thing keeping me from losing my shit right now.

Once he ambles down to me, I push my empty shot glass toward him across the sticky, wooden bar top and slur, “Anudder! And keeps them coming!”

He grabs the bottle from the shelf and pours two more shots. “No more after this.”

I slam them back to back, relishing the burn, loving the way it chases away the ache in my heart over Natalie and Tatum. My Tatum. Before he has a chance to walk away, I ask him, “You gots any…any kids?” He meets my eyes before looking over my shoulder. As he fixes a glass of water, I continue babbling drunkenly, desperate to get some of this crushing weight off of my chest. “I do. A daught-daughter. She’s three and d-doesn’t even know I’m her d-dad. How f-f-fucked up is that?”

Instead of acknowledging what I’ve just said, he keeps his gaze over my shoulder and asks, “You know him?” A pause. “Good. You got him?” Another pause and then he just walks away. I turn to the patron next to me—a grizzled old man that probably eats nails for breakfast. “Guess he doesn’t like kids?” I slur. He grunts in reply.

I go to sip the water he left behind when a voice low and lethal whispers in my ear, “You wanna explain the shit I just heard come out your mouth?”

I attempt to spin to face the voice, but I tilt sideways off of the stool. Two strong hands grip the front of my shirt and haul me upright. The room spins, and my stomach churns. I pinch my eyes shut and let the sensation pass. When I open them, my best friend is right in front of me, all up in my space and glaring daggers.

“Gonna say it one more time; wanna explain that shit I just heard you say?”

Unsure of how he knew I was here, much less what to say, I simply blink up at my best friend, swaying slightly. He tightens his hold on me with one hand and uses the other to retrieve his wallet. He throws a few twenties onto the bar and hauls me up to standing.

Wordlessly, Nate manhandles me out of the bar and into his truck. I got a bad feeling about this…

Alden and I have been friends for a long fucking time; in that span of time, we’ve had our fair share of disagreements, but never once have I wanted to deck him like I do now.

The shit I heard him saying just doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he’s Tatum’s dad. Like, my brain is screaming does not compute, because in order for that to be true, that means he fucked my sister. My still-in-high-school-at-the-time little sister.

Speaking of, how in the hell did she know he was here? How did she know he needed checking on? How did…oh shit.

No questions asked, she said. Guess I know why now. But here’s the thing, I’ve got a lot of fucking questions.

Such as, if Alden’s drunk ass is Tatum’s father, why the hell hasn’t he been pulling his weight and helping out? I glance over to where’s he slumped over in my passenger seat, sleeping like he doesn’t have a care in the world—which is utter shit, seeing as he’s most likely the deadbeat mystery father of my niece.

I decide to bring him back to my place instead of taking him home. My face is gonna be the first thing his ass sees when he wakes up, and he’s going to answer all of my questions, hangover be damned.

Hell, at this point, he deserves worse than nausea and a headache. My sister has spent the last four years damn near breaking her back to provide Tatum with a good life while this dickhole’s been gallivanting through Europe with his cunty, psycho ex.

By the time I pull into my driveway, Alden’s starting to wake up. “Huh?” he slurs. “Wh-where am I?”

I ignore him and exit the truck, coming around to his side. I fling the door open and find him fumbling with the buckle. Jesus. How much did he drink? I reach around him and hit the button to release it. He tumbles out, barely landing on his feet. “C’mon asshole. You’re crashing here tonight. And in the morning, we’re gonna have words.”

With a reluctant arm around his waist, I help him into the house. Inside, I shove him—maybe a little harder than necessary—down onto the couch. I grab a blanket from the hall closet and throw it at him before locking up and heading to my room.

I grab my phone from my pocket and dial Natalie—no questions asked, my ass. She’s got some explaining to do.