"Fine."
I pick up my phone one more time. His last message stares back at me.
Miss you.
Two words. I press my thumb against the screen, right over his name, and hold it there.
Then I put the phone down, face-first on the mattress, and go eat the damn pancakes.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ace
I don't want to open my eyes.
My head is pounding like something's trapped inside my skull and trying to kick its way out. My mouth tastes like I licked the floor of Rosie's Roadhouse, which, I might've actually done. Every heartbeat sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, and the sunlight bleeding through the curtains feels like a personal attack.
I groan, roll onto my front, and shove my face into the pillow.
The door flies open.
"Uncle Ace!! Wakey wakey!"
Wyatt's voice hits my hangover the same way I imagine a sledgehammer would. He's six years old and has the lung capacity of a stadium announcer, and right now he's using every decibel God gave him to pierce straight through my skull.
My stomach rolls as he launches himself onto the bed and starts bouncing. The mattress heaves. The headboard rattles. Somewhere in the depths of my ruined brain, I make a mental note to kill Hunter for allowing this.
I turn my head to the side with a groan, peeling one eye open.
And come face to face with a fucking goat.
"Gary," I croak.
Gary blinks at me with those flat, horizontal pupils. Chewing something. Could be hay. Could be the curtains. Could be my will to live.
I blink back. Take stock. I ain't in my house. This isn't my bed. That isn't my goat.
I'm in Hunter's spare room, wearing nothing but boxers and what I'm pretty sure is a bruise the size of Texas on my ribs from last night's brawl. The sheets smell like lavender, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand that I know I didn't pour for myself.
Drunk Ace doesn’t give a shit about hungover Ace.
Wyatt giggles and jumps directly onto my back.
"Hey!" I shout.
He grabs fistfuls of my hair and wrenches my face around to look at him. His dark eyes are three inches from mine and absolutely delighted.
"Uncle Ace, open your eyes."
He squeals as I roll over, grab him under the arms, and launch him into the air. He shrieks with laughter as I catch him and toss him down onto the mattress. He erupts into the kind of giggles that make your chest hurt in a good way. The kind that reminds you there are still perfect things in this world, even when the rest of it is a mess.
I sit up, rub my eyes, and try to function as a human being.
I drank way too much last night. Beer, whiskey, bourbon, something Jett handed me that tasted like gasoline, which gave me instant heartburn. I don't remember getting back here. The last thing I recall clearly is Hunter's hand on Brady's throat and the look in those Ranch 42 boys' eyes as they stumbled out the door.
"Daddy said you might have a headache," Wyatt announces, poking me square on the forehead with one sticky finger.
I arch an eyebrow. "Oh, did he?"
