I wake up hard.

Her taste in my mouth.

The smell of her on my skin. When I flex my fingers, I can still feel her pussy.

Soft and desperate.

Slick and hot.

Tess.

Declan… please. I need—

I know, baby. I know… I’m going to take care of you. Let me take care of you.

Fuck.

I sit up. Swipe the bottle of Jameson off my nightstand and take a drink. Try to wash her away.

It doesn’t work.

It never does.

I need to get up. Take a shower. Move. Get myself together. Back on track.

I cut a look at my dresser. The drawer with her clothes in it is still hanging open. I didn’t steal all of them. I found the Sox shirt under my bed when I was moving out of my parents’ house. She left one of the tanks at the cottage. I meant to give them back—at least that’s what I told myself. The truth is, I put them in a drawer and kept adding to the pile. I take her things because I can’t take her.

I know there’s something wrong with me. She didn’t have to say it.

I know.

Trust me, I know.

The really fucked-up part about it is I don’t even feel bad about it.

Like I said before, my brother isn’t the only Gilroy who was put together wrong.

My phone goes off.

It’s been going off.

Buzzing and rattling next to the half empty bottle for hours now.

I finally give in and look at it.

I expect a dozen I’m going to kill you, motherfucker texts from Con.

Tess will tell him what happened.

She tells him everything.

And he’ll come at me. He won’t care where I am or who’s watching. He’ll come for me because he knows what I really am. How dangerous I am to Tess. How badly I hurt her. That I’ll do it again, given half the chance.

Good.

I tap the screen with my thumb and get ready to scroll through his death threats but stop short.

Not my brother.

My cousin.

Patrick: Where are you?

Patrick: Kids are waiting.

Patrick: Game’s about to start.

Patrick: WTF?

Patrick: Why aren’t you answering?

Shit.

It’s 9AM on a Sunday.

I was supposed to be up hours ago.

Picking up kids in the company van.

Our standing order at Benny’s.

Feeding them and leading them through some pre-game drills. Clapping and coaching them through their game.

Another text comes through. Patrick again.

Patrick: Are you okay?

This isn’t like you.

He’s right. It’s not.

Every Sunday. Like clockwork.

I keep a schedule. A routine.

I have dozens of them.

Things I do. Places I go.

I’m not impulsive.

I don’t deviate.

I don’t give myself choices.

Because when I do, I make the wrong one.

Every. Single. Time.

Like buying Tess black lace lingerie.

Answering the door when she showed up last night.

Getting her naked.

Tongue fucking her.

We aren’t finished.

“Fuck.” I growl it out loud, jamming my thumbs against the screen of my cell, pounding out a text, practically hard enough to crack the screen.

Me: I’m fine.

Overslept.

On my way.

It’s a lie and he’ll know it. Patrick isn’t just my cousin, he’s my business partner. He’s family. He knows me better than anyone.

I don’t oversleep.

I’m never late.

I’m Mr. Measure twice and then measure again, just to be sure.

He saw me yesterday. Last night. He knows I’m not okay. That I’ve been in a tailspin over Tess for a while now. That I’ve been fighting a losing battle for the past nine years and I’ve finally worn thin.

That I’m tired of trying.

Patrick: It’s okay. Con

And Hen are here. Just

Stay put. We’ll talk later.

I almost do what he says. Almost toss my phone. Crack a fresh bottle and crawl back into bed.

Fuck it, right?

I deserve a day. Just one motherfucking day to do what I want to do.

Not what I have to do.

Not what I should do.

I’m getting ready to sacrifice the rest of my goddamned life in an effort to do the right thing.

I deserve a day.

Just one.

What I want.

Just this once.

Tess.

Always Tess.

I don’t deserve her.

No amount of justification can convince me of that.

But I want her.

That’s the thought that pushes me up and into the shower. Goads me into getting dressed. Forces me to gather up the clothes she left scattered like buckshot around my apartment.

But I want her.

I try not to think about what I’m doing.

Why.

I just keep pretending that I’m one of the good guys. That my intentions are honorable. That I have a conscience.

When everyone around me knows that nothing could be further from the truth.