Page 5

“So come with me. Let’s get your mind off Tay and find some babes for you to, uh, do whatever it is straight dudes do.”

The idea of sitting at home in silence sounds worse than dying of alcohol poisoning, that's for fucking sure. Admittedly, my left wrist is starting to get sore. There's only so much porn a guy can watch before it starts to get concerning. Maybe Owen's right, I need to get laid. It's been a few weeks.

“Fine,” I sigh, cutting the engine. “You're driving, and there better be no cover charge.”

These pockets are dry. Logan’s accident last year—and the subsequent absence of his wife, Salem, because of it—really fucked with my finances. She was our marketing manager, and without her, the stunt bike brand I built with Tay—Twins of Terror—is slowly circling the drain.

I keep telling myself I’ll figure it out. Just need to catch up on sponsorship deadlines, film a few new clips, actually post them… But every time I think about it, my brain short-circuits.

Dirt bike tricks used to be fun. Now, without Salem handling the nitty-gritty for Twins of Terror, it just feels like work.

Owen snorts, once again snapping me out of my thoughts. “Oh, I'll get us in. The bouncer owes me a favor. Now change your shirt. You smell like mansweat.”

He’s already walking toward his car before I can argue, keys jingling.

I stare after him for a moment before swinging my gaze to the oil spot left behind by Taylor’s truck. It's been there so long that I hardly notice it anymore. Until now. The knowledge that his truck won't be back to cover it feels almost too much for me to handle at the moment.

Christ, Owen's right. Booze and dancing. Maybe a few lady friends. Anything right now to patch up this weird, lonely dread cracking my heart in two.

“This ain't my fucking scene.”

Crossing my arms, I stand on the sidewalk and gaze at the club Owen insisted we come to. It's all brick and vine, with pastel purple lights illuminating the street. A line full of preppy assholes stretches around the building. Even the bouncer looks polished—trimmed beard, crisp black suit, sour-puss face.

I glance down at my patched denim vest, oil-stained jeans, and dirty combat boots. “This place looks expensive as fuck.”

Owen adjusts the collar of Logan’s polo snobbishly. “You look fine.”

“Tell that to the bouncer. He's looking at me like I just crawled out of a dumpster.”

“Oh, please. Derek loves me.”

This fucking blows.

Dragging a hand down my face, I study the chicks in line, but none of them catch my eye. Not many do lately, if I'm being honest. Ever since Arya dumped me and moved to Seattle, I've just been… shit, I don't even know. Depressed? Is this what depression feels like? Heartbreak?

Whatever it is, it's been killing my vibe for months. At least I had Taylor to hang out with and keep my mind busy. I mean, yeah, Logan lives with us too, but that guy's boring as fuck. Who enjoys computer games for nine straight hours? Jesus.

How he managed to pull not only a wife—who’s more badass than me, by the way—but this adorable little twink, too, is beyond me. Dude must have a magic dick or some shit. Maybe that's why Devon slept with him⁠—

Ah, fuck.

I silently reprimand myself as I follow Owen, itching for something I can’t quite name. Told myself almost a year ago I'd stop thinking of that asshole, yet here I am doing it again.

Kill me now.

Before we get too close, the growl of a motorcycle catches my attention. I whip my head toward the sound and catch someone peeling off on a Harley down the road. Several others start up, a whole line of them, parked outside some run-down concrete building with a neon sign blinking in the window.

Arnie's.

The ‘n’ flickers red, and when a beefy-looking dude in a leather jacket steps outside, I spot pool tables through the open door. Metal music filters into the street.

Now, that's my kind of joint, not this ritzy uptown cocktail bullshit. Maybe we should go there instead.

A woman exits behind the guy in a tight little dress, further cementing my decision. I turn on my heel to start walking toward the place.

“Change of plans,” I call over my shoulder.

Owen rushes after me, but when he realizes where we're going, his pretty face goes pale. “Absolutely not.”