"Are you sure this is the address Damon gave?" I question down my cell, glancing at a crumpled piece of paper my mom handled me earlier this evening. "It's not what I was expecting."

After my mom assures me for the third time I have the correct address, I lift my eyes to the flashing sign in front of me. It’s been years since I’ve been to Vipers, so the address didn’t register when I saw it. I shouldn’t be surprised Damon selected this location. He rocks up out of the blue for the first time in years and requests for me to meet him at our dad’s favorite strip joint.

Brother of the Year material right here, ladies and gentleman.

After glancing down at my dark blue trousers, white button-up shirt, and jacket, I head into the main entrance. The last time I walked through these doors was the evening of Justine's eighteenth birthday. Fuck—who would have been able to predict the obstacles I’d go on to face. If you had told me I'd be walking in these doors ten years later as a detective at Ravenshoe PD, I would have laughed. I never saw my life taking the path it has—not in a million years.

Keeping my chin braced on my chest, I pay the high entrance fee before slipping into the main floor area of the club. My face isn't famously well-known around these parts like Isaac’s, but it is known enough I have the possibility of being spotted. Most likely by criminals, but detected nonetheless.

I guess that’s why Damon chose this location? Corrupt men are less likely to confront their own in their territory. If it weren't for the pull I've amassed the past six years, Damon's extensive list of criminal activities would be higher than it currently sits. He took my word of protecting him from my father's murder and twisted it in a completely fucked up way. He didn't just expect me to take the fall for our father's demise, he anticipated I'd handle every misguided thing he does.

I have news for him. Just like my search for a pretty blonde with green eyes ended years ago, so did my offer of the safety net I’ve been using to catch him the past ten years.

I swore to protect him on the promise he wouldn't become our father. He lied, so there is no need for me to continue my side of our agreement anymore. I've done everything I can: extensive rehab, drug counseling; I even set him up with an apartment in town when he rocked up eight years ago. What did I get for my efforts? Lies, lies, and more lies.

Damon has gone so far down the rabbit hole, I honestly don’t know if he can still lie straight in bed. With every request for money came a dishonest pledge. I caught on to his games years ago. My mom is still learning.

You’d think she’d be more clued into the games abusers play after handling my father’s antics for twenty years, but she is none the wiser. Instead of her life improving when my dad passed away, the baton of burden shifted to Damon. She will go without groceries for a week to ensure Damon’s drug habit is maintained. It is a vicious, demoralizing cycle that has no end in sight.

I love my brother, but I hate the man he has become.

Spotting Damon and Brax in a far corner booth, I increase my pace. Although appreciative of the many flirty smiles I'm getting from the staff at Vipers, I'm not so desperate for female company I'm willing to part with my hard-earned money to achieve it. My detective salary certainly is a step up from the rookie income I lived off when I joined the force a decade ago, but it will never be high enough for me to drop coins on something I can get for free.

As long as she doesn't have honey hair, green eyes, and a lack of self-respect, I'm open to the prospect. But if there’s any requirement involving money, I'm not interested. Not in the slightest. Never going to happen. Nada.

When I reach my brother, I hold my hand out in offering. “Damon.”

He accepts my offer, although hesitantly.

"It's been eight years, man, time to let bygones be bygones," Brax mutters into my ear, greeting me in a friendlier nature than the one I issued my brother.

I wasn’t shocked when Brax called to say he received an invitation from Damon. Damon might be a liar and a cheat, but he’s also smart. He knew Brax was the perfect buffer. He is the equivalent of our brother without the blood or the official title.

Brax did everything in his power to get Damon on the straight and narrow ten years ago. He went out on a limb for him, but because he was only working with half-truths, he didn’t fully comprehend the mammoth task he was undertaking.

As far as anyone in this town is concerned, my mother killed my father—even Brax believes this. When my mother returned from the rehabilitation home where she resided for nearly two years, she wasn’t shamed, ridiculed, or spoken down to. She was seen as a matriarch of the domestic violence community, which is distressing considering her current predicament.

My mom has grown a lot the past ten years, but she still isn’t half the woman she could be. No matter how much light I shine on her, she will always find a shadow. It is who she is. Nothing can change this.

Brax slaps my back three times, drawing my focus to the present.

“You know why he picked here to meet, don’t you?” I ask, pulling back from his man hug.

Brax quirks a brow. “Yeah, I know. But there is nothing wrong with an off-duty detective spending his weekend looking at some fine ladies.”

He gestures for me to slide into the booth before him, understanding my objective to remain inconspicuous. If anyone here remembers my dad, I’ll be pinned as corrupt in less than a nanosecond. I worked my ass off for years to have the mud removed from my family name. I won’t let anything taint it.

Forty minutes pass in silence, adding to my agitation. Damon has had two lap dances since I arrived, but I’ve failed to see him remove his wallet. I’m not a regular at these types of establishments, but don’t businesses demand payment prior to service? You don’t watch a movie before paying for the ticket, so how can you secure a stripper without proving you have the means to pay the tab?

I chuckle under my breath. Is Damon the problem or me? Perhaps I've disconnected so far from society I'm not seeing things the way they are anymore. I do work—tirelessly. Maybe I am out of the loop?

I can't remember the last time I went out. I'm reasonably sure it was a year ago when I succumbed to Regina's suggestion of letting her set me up with someone she knew.

After seeing Izzy for the first time, I wish I had surrendered to Regina’s nagging years earlier. Without hesitation, I can testify that Izzy is gorgeous. Big chocolate eyes, dark temperamental locks, and the personality of a girl who should be a whole lot uglier. For the first time in years, my interests were piqued. It is a pity she is Isaac’s girl.

Izzy did a stellar job pretending she was unaffected by Isaac's domineering personality, but within minutes of watching them interacting with one another, her ruse came undone. I wouldn't necessarily say Izzy was under a spell, but Isaac's prompts reminded me a lot of a guy I once knew: my young, stupid self.

For the years following Ophelia’s death, Isaac was a ghost. I didn’t hear or see him in years. When Ravenshoe boomed, his presence became more known. Within months, the shadow swamping him vanished, and our mutual interest in a pretty brunette at one of his clubs resurrected our natural competitive nature.

That is why I kissed Izzy.

I shouldn’t have, but the competitive edge Isaac always instigates from me was rearing its ugly head that night. I wanted to show him the expense of a suit has nothing on the man wearing it. Did I go in strong? Yeah, I did. Did he react how I expected him to? Yeah, he did. Do I regret it? No, not at all. Why? Because the words he spoke when he returned to pick up his date have stayed with me since then.

“I once asked if you could fight. You said, ‘You don’t need talent to fight. Anyone can take a hit; it is how you accept it that proves your worth.’ I never understood what that meant. . . until now. I’ll accept your hit like a man, Ryan, but you need to accept mine in return.”

He stepped closer to me, bringing his gray eyes level with my baby blues. “Love is about guts. If you have it, you fight the world to keep it. If you don’t, you fight no one but yourself. This isn’t your fight. It’s mine.”

He didn't realize he admitted to loving Isabelle that night, but both Cormack and I heard it loud and clear. It was in that instant we realized Isaac was no longer in the game we had been playing for years. I threw him a curveball; he hit it out of the park. Game over.

I crank my neck to the side when Brax’s elbow lands in my ribs. “What’s the deal? Why is he back?” He gestures his head to Damon.

I toss back a nip of whiskey before replying, "I don't know. He sent Ma a message a few days ago saying he might head back this way in a few months. He turns up on her doorstep the very next day."

"You think he's running from something?" Brax questions, hearing the underlying message in my reply.

“Something or someone.” I take another generous swig of my whiskey, hoping to force the bile racing up my esophagus back into my stomach.

Brax huffs while scrubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin.

Wanting to shift the focus off me and my fucked-up family, I ask, “So what’s the deal with you? I’ve seen you turn down three girls since I arrived. That’s not the Brax I know.” Thankfully, my tone comes out playful even though I’m feeling anything but.

The whiskey I've only just swallowed threatens to resurface when Brax mutters, "I think my cock is broken."

"What?" I gasp, my one word breathless since I'm nearly choking to death.

Brax tracks a blonde sauntering past our booth. Since her hair is more platinum blonde than golden, I take a moment to appreciate her generous curves.

“Beautiful ass, a sinful body, and a rack I’d love to bury my face in.”

I nod, agreeing with Brax's assessment. This blonde is a knockout. If only her hair were a little darker.

“Nothing. Nada. It is fucking broken,” Brax mutters, glancing at his crotch.

I shouldn’t laugh—I’m an ass for laughing—but the more I try to hold back my laughter, the louder I laugh.

My chuckles are nipped in the bud when I spot the genuine worry in Brax's eyes. He truly thinks his cock is broken.

“Maybe things have just gotten too easy for you?” I suggest, my tone sincere.

Brax has never had his heart ripped out and stomped on, but that doesn’t mean he’s undeserving of my sympathy. For a man as sexually promiscuous as Brax, a broken cock is the same thing.

"You need to mess up that pretty face of yours. Make it more of a challenge. Your dick has gotten bored with the ease of the game."

I wait for Brax to nod, agreeing with the shit dribbling from my mouth. He does no such thing. He knows me well enough to know I have no clue what I am talking about. Game? What fucking game? I'm so far out in left field, I can't even see the batter anymore.

When Brax whacks me in the arm, I rub the spot his knuckles landed while turning my eyes to the crowd. It's not an ideal location to put out feelers for a mate, but there is a weird excitement thickening my blood, encouraging my defiance. My rebelliousness has nothing to do with the two dozen half-naked women mingling around our booth. It is a peculiar feeling that is hard to explain. It is familiar, yet odd. If that makes any sense?

Shutting down my bizarre behavior as the consequence of a tiring week, I return my eyes to Brax. “You still buying into Inked?”

Inked is the tattoo parlor Brax began working at when we were in high school. He thought the probation his grandmother arranged would tie up a few weeks of his time. He had no clue it would open doors he never knew he wanted to walk through. When we were teens, Brax avoided work like the plague. Now, I don’t think he’s had a vacation day in years.

I can’t talk. The three days between Chris’s death and his funeral were the longest I’ve been away from Ravenshoe PD. I wouldn’t say I’m a workaholic. . . Nah. Fuck that. I hate liars. I am a workaholic. But if it saves me sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs while thinking about a girl I have no right to be thinking about, I’ll wear the title with pride. I’d rather be a workaholic than a miserable, lonely old man who acts like he is ninety when he is only twenty-eight.

Denial isn’t lying. . .right?

Right.

Then why do I feel like a fraud every time I say it?