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THEO
Pounding on my front door drags me from my vodka-induced coma, and I quickly realise that the insistent banging matches that in my head.
Groaning, I roll over, allowing my legs to fall out of the bed, and by some miracle, I manage to find my way to my feet.
Running my fingers through my hair, I try to tame it down a little as I pad down the hallway, doing my best not to look toward the guest room where all of Emmie’s belongings are.
That room was the first place I woke up in a drunken stupor earlier. Thankfully, Seb and Stella had left and didn’t get to witness the level of pathetic I’d lowered myself to as I curled up in Emmie’s bed.
“Ugh.” I shake my head at myself as the pounding continues.
Get a fucking grip, Theo. She’s just a girl.
A girl who doesn’t want you.
The pounding gets louder—or it could just be that my head can no longer take it.
Desperate for a drink, I look around at the mess we left behind in the living room, my eyes locking on a half-empty bottle of vodka.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, swiping it from the coffee table and tipping the neck to my lips.
It burns as it hits the back of my throat and makes my stomach twist dangerously.
“All right, Seb. I’m fucking coming, arsehole,” I boom when the knocking restarts once more.
Pressing my free hand to the pad, I pull the door open, still wearing only my boxers and accessorising with a bottle of vodka.
“What the fuck do you want?” I grunt before I’ve fully pulled the door open. But the second I do, and my eyes land on my blood-splattered guests, I realise it was probably the wrong thing to say.
“Theodore Cirillo. As first impressions go, I can’t say you’re killing it.”
I stumble aside as the two larger-than-life men at my door walk inside as if I’d just invited them in—which, of course, I didn’t.
“Wow, this place is… fancy. Daddy really went all out, huh?”
Emmie’s uncle stands at the windows, looking out over the city while her father glares at me, probably imagining all the creative ways he knows to kill me with his bare hands.
“Uh… yeah, it’s not bad,” I mutter, feeling completely out of my depth.
Normally, I wouldn't give a fuck about facing off with two bikers. But today is not the day.
I’m not feeling brave, or intimidating, or like myself in any kind of way. Mostly, I just want to curl up back in bed and block it all out.
The silence that follows my words becomes unbearable as Dawson’s stare doesn’t leave me.
My skin prickles and my stomach rolls with the vodka I’d drunk on the way to let them in.
Placing the bottle down, I hold his eyes.
“Is she okay?” I ask, not recognising the genuine concern in my voice.
His jaw tics. “What do you think?”
“Shit, D,” I say, lifting my hand to my hair once more. “I fucking swear to you, I never wanted to hurt her. I just—”
“Do you care about her?” he asks bluntly.
“W-what?”
