The house is dark, just the light over the cook top is on. I sit at the kitchen table and take another swig of bourbon.

The room is full of expensive pieces of furniture from a double oven to a restaurant-style refrigerator. The table I’m sitting at was handcrafted, as were the barstools lining the granite-topped bar. It’s a warm room, the one everyone calls the heart of the home. Most assuredly the most expensive room in this house. Yet, when I think about sitting here or sitting at the little beat-up table at Alison’s, there’s no question where I’d rather be.

And it isn’t fucking here.

My body aches. My shoulders are stiff, my head feels like I’ve gone a few rounds with my trainer. My throat is scratchy from yelling so much today, my knuckle a little ripped from hitting a punching bag at the gym with no gloves. The pain felt purifying, distracting from my true ailment—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that I just might have ruined my chances with.

Not being able to smooth this over with her destroys me. Seeing the pain on her face, the little spec of insecurity in who I am and what I believe about her, hasn’t left me all day. In fact, it’s only pressurized, built, and now is bubbling over.

My phone buzzes and I only look at it in case it’s her. But it’s not. Of course it’s not. It’s Linc.

As much as I don’t want to hear his stupidity, I really don’t want to be alone. So I answer it.

“Hey,” I say, flinching as the bourbon festers in my stomach.

“What’s up?”

“Not much.” I sit the glass on the table. “What about you?”

“Not much. Just seeing what’s happening over there.”

I look around the room and consider just how much of nothing is happening. No conversations, no plans for tomorrow, no lunch dates on the schedule that I actually want to attend. Not one damn thing.

“Graham called earlier and filled me in on the debacle with the papers and all that,” he says, like he’s just tossing that out there as a conversation piece. It’s the reason he fucking called and as much as that annoys me, it’s also a relief.

“Yeah, it’s been a fucked up day.”

“How’d you handle it?”

“What do you mean, ‘How did I handle it?’” I snort. “I had a complete fucking come-apart in the middle of my office.” I cringe as the memory washes over me, the fury I felt the moment I saw those headlines driving a nail into my skull.

“I can imagine,” Lincoln says, no humor in his voice. “I have to say, I was a little disappointed no punches were thrown.”

I scoff at my little brother, the one that nearly charged the mound last year when a pitcher hit him three times in one game.

“I know you don’t like Nolan. Hell, I’m not sure how much I even like the son of a bitch right now. But I can’t throw punches. I have a real job.”

“Baseball is a real job, asshole. I make more than you do a year. Choke on that.”

I laugh, even though I don’t want to, because Lincoln is right. He makes more than I do doing a job that’s a hell of a lot more fun and less stressful.

“How’d Alison take it?” he asks.

“How do you think she took it?”

“That good, huh?”

Rubbing my temples, I consider refilling my glass with liquor. It would absolutely dull the pain, but it would also mute my ability to think, to process, to plan, and that’s nearly all I have on my side right now. I need to figure a way out of this.

“She’s effectively not talking to me right now,” I say, the words tasting as bitter as I expect them to. “A part of me feels like I need to act, to do something to make this better. It’s what I do. There’s a problem, I fix it. But you know, maybe this life I lead isn’t what’s best for her. I mean, fuck, Linc. My own people put out that article.”

He chuckles under his breath. “The life you lead isn’t the problem, brother. It’s your quote-unquote ‘own people’ that are the issue. I’m not even going to start into a big lecture here on how much I hate Nolan and all the reasons I think he’s poison to you.”

“You’re just mad he told dad you’re the one that wrecked my BMW back in the day,” I grin.

“Yeah because that shows his lack of loyalty! It was none of his fucking business. You and I had it worked out. It would’ve been fixed and that would’ve been the end of it. The cocksucker overhears us talking and snitches like the asshole he is.”

Sighing, I stand and walk over to the island where I left the bottle of bourbon. I pour a little into my glass and swirl it around while I consider Lincoln’s words.

“I’m days from this election. If I weren’t, I would’ve fired him today.”

“You should’ve fired him today.”

I groan. “We’ve been working on this campaign for years, Linc. There are so many people’s jobs riding on the line.” Sighing, I slump against the counter. “I was reading him the riot act today, and Dad shoved me out of the room and told me to calm down.”

Taking another swig of the liquor, I feel the burn as it trickles down my throat. “If I fire him now, my chances of losing this election triple. Maybe quadruple. So much time and money have been spent that I can’t just blow it now because I’m pissed off. Those people have families to feed, bills to pay. That’s not fair to anyone.”

“It’s fair to you. You gotta stand up for yourself, man.”

“I did,” I sigh. “I’ve done everything I can.”

“Welp,” Lincoln says, “if that’s the case, have you done everything you can to tell Ali that?”

“Ali? You’re on a nickname basis with my girl now?”

“Hey, she likes me. Probably better than you right now!”

“Go to hell.” A pang of jealousy that their relationship is so easy taps my heart.

The line grows quiet, both of us trying to get some kind of game plan together. The problem is that neither of us plan as well as Graham, and this isn’t something I can plan with my logical brother. I’m closest to Graham, but when you need someone to plan shenanigans, you have to go to Linc.

“You know, I’ve never understood why you like politics,” Lincoln says.

“I’m not sure why I do right now either.”

“Is it what you want to do? Do you want this life, worrying about what everyone says about you, picking you apart, going after your girl?”

Sitting back at the table again, I think about how many times I’ve asked myself that very question over the last few days.

“It’s the only thing I ever considered doing,” I point out.

“Because Dad pushed you.”

“Not just that,” I say. “I’ve always felt like this is what I’m supposed to do. And I’ve enjoyed it for the most part. You can do a lot of good things with the power it gives you. It’s constantly moving, changing. You can’t stand still or you get lost in the shuffle. And, before the last couple of months, I’ve had all the women and parties and opportunities I could ever want.”

“That’s all fine and dandy, but everything you’ve said has been past tense.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know.”

“So ... why not drop out? Change courses. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to try to save the world or give up your life and subject yourself to this craziness.”

“I’ve considered it.” My fingertips strum the table, lost in thought. “You know, I wonder what my life would’ve been like if Dad hadn’t bought me the mayoral election.”

“Barrett, don’t even fucking go there. You won that thing on your own.”

“Did I, Linc?” I ask. “I remember going to the debates, answering the questions at the interviews, and not really having a fucking clue what they were talking about. I said what I was supposed to say, smiled, and boom—I’m the mayor. Did you ever think about that?”

He groans into the phone. “You’re just being stupid now.”

I laugh, feeling like a weight is off my shoulders. “No, maybe I’m just being honest.”

“If that’s the case, maybe you shouldn’t be in politics to start with.”

“Maybe not. But I am and I can’t back out now.”

“You also can’t risk losing her either, Barrett. I’ve never seen you happier than you have been lately. You’re so normal when you’re with her, almost like one of the guys I play ball with.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He laughs. “I’m serious. You’re usually a stick in the mud, off burying your cock in some chick or huddled in a corner with Graham. You’re actually kind of fun now.”

Taking a swig of my drink, I feel it burn as it goes down. “I don’t feel very fun right now.”

“You’re at the plate with a full count. You have to step to the plate ready to swing, Barrett.”

“Baseball analogies? Really?”

“Listen to me. Be ready to swing. Don’t let the third strike pass the plate. Because when that happens, you go to the dugout. Alone. And that’s a cold and lonely place.”