Page 176 of I’m The Worst

“I was the one who went in. I tie up my own loose ends.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. “And do those loose ends involve my fiancée?”

“This is operational.”

He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he steps back.

“Operational,” he repeats quietly. “That’s good to hear. Consider your review concluded. That matter is closed. I’ve assigned a mission to you. Details are already in your inbox. It deploys tonight.”

He moves toward the door, then pauses with one hand resting against the steel frame. “I would hate to see a newly appointed General appear…distracted. There are expectations that come with your rank. Focus is one of them. It would be unfortunate to lose momentum so early.”

The door slides shut behind him.

The room goes silent.

My fists are clenched tight enough that my knuckles ache. I force them open and yank a rifle from the rack and load it methodically, checking the chamber, clearing it, repeating the motion until I can breathe through the rage.

Once I’m outside, I check my phone. One new message from AJ.

I don’t open it. I just delete it and block her number. Again. I shove the phone back into my pocket and start toward my truck.

This stops today.

I’m half-asleep when my phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the haze of the pills I took an hour ago. I blink blearily at the screen, Jackal asleep at the foot of my bed, snoring softly. The name on the caller ID makes my heart lurch.

Dad.

Fuck.

I sit up quickly, head spinning as I fumble to answer.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Where are you?” His voice is clipped.

“I’m at home.” I glance around my messy bedroom. “What’s up?”

“Did you speak with the wedding coordinator?”

I bite my lip, trying to remember if that was today or tomorrow. “I— Yeah, of course.”

Before he can respond, my doorbell rings. Jackal takes off down the stairs, nails clicking against the hardwood as I pull myself out of bed.

“Hold on, someone’s at the door.” I groan, pulling on a robe before shuffling after him. I crack the door open.

“David?”

My stomach drops.

He stands on my porch in a perfectly tailored suit, hair immaculate.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, pulling the door open wider. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, eyes sweeping over the mess in my living room—empty wines, scattered pill bottles on the coffee table. I close the door behind him, suddenly very aware of how I look: robe barely tied, hair a disaster, the faint smell of weed and alcohol still clinging to the air. I hang up on Dad mid-sentence.

“Should I assume you forgot your appointment with the planner?”

I wrap the robe tighter around myself. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”