“Why not? She’s the total package. A lady in the kitchen and a wildcat—”
“Stop talking,” he said through suddenly gritted teeth.
“Everywhere else.” Beck had always dealt with tense situations in one of two ways: teasing or taunting. “Why? What’d you think I was going to say?”
Refuse to resent. “If she’s so world-class amazing, why didn’t you fall for her?”
“One of the hazards of jumping into bed too fast.” Beck shrugged. “You find out later you’re better off as friends. Besides, she’s not Harlow.”
She wasn’t Tessa, either. And now this conversation was over. “All right. If I’ve passed today’s sobriety test, I’ve got work to do.”
“Happy to say you passed the sobriety test. Sad to say you failed the asshole test.”
“Not that. Anything but that.” He shook a fist toward the ceiling. “Why? Why me?”
“And now you’ve failed the shithead test. Where’s my thanks for showing up just because my best friend is a workaholic and he’d throw a he-hissy if I suggested we take an ice break?”
“Here.” West flipped him off. “This is your thanks.”
Grinning, Beck stood and gathered his discarded garments. “Heartwarming. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
Alone, West admitted that, despite his levity, he wasn’t actually in a good place. Could he pass a true sobriety test?
Let’s find out.
He unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. A bottle of Lagavulin stared up at him. He traced a finger over the cold glass.
Drink me, the whiskey said. Just a sip. I’ll help you relax.
Truer words had never not been spoken. But West knew the sense of relaxation would only last for a little while. Later he would fall back into his foul mood and he would need another drink...and then he’d turn to coke. The bane of his existence. The demon on his shoulder.
There’d been many mornings when, in the prime of his addiction, he’d frantically raced through his apartment on a hunt for money. He’d checked for loose bills under couch cushions and inside the washer and dryer, and when he’d found nothing, he’d snuck into Beck’s bedroom to rifle through dresser drawers. His desperation had been greater than his shame.
He’d needed a fix, and he’d needed it bad, but without cash, he wouldn’t get anything but grief from his dealer. He’d even contemplated doing what his mother used to do to get her fix...
He scrubbed a hand down his face, tried to forget... Can’t ever forget. His mother allowed her addict “friends” to do whatever they wanted to her body as long as they shared their supply. Sometimes she even sold herself to strangers. Anyone with a few dollars to spare.
One guy—
Call me Uncle Sam.
West shuddered. Whenever Sam had finished with Della he’d come looking for West. Not knowing what else to do, West had hidden in cabinets, under his bed and even inside the trash can. Sometimes he’d stayed hidden. A few times, he’d been found.
The fact that he’d ever considered selling himself...
He gave his head a violent shake to dislodge the claws of the past. His self-disgust remained.
“Drinking isn’t on my schedule.” He slammed the drawer shut, turned the lock and breathed in and out with purpose. He always stuck to his schedule. A habit he’d developed in rehab. Structure kept chaos—a trigger—at bay, every task a baby step that required time and attention to ultimately walk him to the end of his day as clean as a man like him could be.
Too many stains on my soul.
Speaking of his schedule... Four little words stared up at him from the screen of his phone. Follow Jessie Kay home.
Why had he penciled in such a thankless task?
Because he liked the way her sun-kissed skin flushed to a deep rose whenever she got angry? Because he liked the snarky things that came out of her mouth? A mouth he longed to taste. Because he liked the burn in his blood every time she stepped into a room? Liked the rush of matching wits with her?
Because he didn’t want the madness to end?
Idiot! Fool! A man could become addicted to a woman like her. Especially a man like him. And yet he still picked up the phone and pressed the button to connect him to Beck.
“I’m heading out for a little while.”
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING, WEST dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt that read “Goal Scouts.” During soccer season—March through October—he coached a team of underprivileged kids. Off-season, he played indoors with the big boys. A great source of therapy.
He anchored his shin guards in place, tied his shoes and glanced at the clock—8:59 a.m. Right on time. He smoothed the wrinkles in his comforter, ensured the lid to his dirty clothes hamper was closed and sailed into the kitchen to mix three protein shakes.
“Hey, man.” Jase strode around the corner, dressed and ready for the game.
Both Jase and Beck opted to join the indoor team rather than watching the action from the bleachers.
Jase played goalie. He had the body of a tank, and nothing got past him. Also, other teams tended to soil their pants with a single look at him. Everything from the spikes in his dark hair to the feral glaze in his green eyes said screw with me and pay the ultimate price.
Not exactly an idle threat. Having spent nearly a decade behind bars, he had a few issues and a whole lot of pent-up rage.
Aaand just like that, guilt burned through West like acid. “Hey.” He couldn’t meet his friend’s gaze as he slid one of the shakes across the counter. “Drink up.”
“Seriously?” Jase got in his face, forcing eye contact. “This is how you’re going to start the morning?”
“Since when do you have such a beef with protein?”
“I don’t care about the protein, and you know it. I care about the way you’re looking at me right now. Or trying not to look at me.”
Right. Jase actually expected West to forgive himself for the part he’d played in the prison sentence. And for a while, he’d tried. But guilt was the monster in the back of his mental closet, always there, always lurking, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. His friend had suffered unimaginable horrors, and for what? So West could throw his life away?
So, no, West wouldn’t be forgiving himself anytime soon.
“You’re the reason I’m what Brook Lynn refers to as a romance novel lover’s dream. Reformed and rich,” Jase said. “I’m grateful.”
West started WOH simply to keep himself busy during his recovery, but the hobby quickly became a cash cow. “You wouldn’t have gone to prison at all if I’d reacted differently to Tessa’s—”
He couldn’t say the word.
The night it happened, he’d been a newly minted eighteen-year-old kid fresh out of the foster system. He’d lived with his boys and had his eye on the prize: a happily-ever-after. Tessa had invited him to a party, but at the last minute he’d opted to stay home and tinker with a new motherboard. He could sell it, make money and buy his girl the world. She’d gone with her cousin, instead. Beck had gone on a date with a girl he’d met earlier that day, and Jase, a carpenter, had still been at work.
A sobbing Tessa had returned in the middle of the night. She’d always been an emotional