Page 33 of Sin of Love

“All right,” says Liam easily, and everyone’s attention snaps to him. “On one condition. You sober up, because right now you’re sick and useless.”

Sick and useless.

The soft, pointed words—spoken by a complete stranger—breach my defenses like no others have in months. This Irish bastard with a perma-twinkle in his eye—clearly a criminal of some sort himself—just blew up my fucking head.

Sick.

Useless.

I don’t know whether to thank him or try to choke him out. Then again, I’m no match for anyone right now. It’s a gentle seventy-one degrees with a cool breeze and I’m sweating like a pig.

My face, head, and balls itch from poor hygiene. My shirt hangs, baggy and soiled, from bony shoulders and arms. I’ve lost probably twenty pounds of straight muscle, and the only reason my pants are on is because they’re drawstring. I’m out of breath from pacing and talking, dizzy from lack of nutrients, and my hands are shaking with the beginnings of DTs.

And yet, even now, with everything I’ve learned, there’s a monkey in my head screaming for something to take the edge off, mentally surveying the house for places I might have hidden booze. Sweat drips from my temples as panic starts to set in.

Fifty-six days living with a broken heart and I’m a motherfucking alcoholic.

“Yes.” I clear my throat, speaking over the rush of blood in my ears. “Deal. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“One more condition,” adds Dominic. He stands, gaze settling on me with the weight of Judgement Day. “Once you’re detoxed, you start training at my gym every morning. No fucking exceptions. Liam’s right—it’s time to pull your head out of your ass and straighten out.”

Despite his sharp words, his eyes are warm with compassion as he closes the distance between us. Clasping the back of my neck, he gives me a light shake. I wobble alarmingly and flush with humiliation.

“I get where you are, Gideon. I’ve been there myself. But you can’t help anyone if you’re drinking yourself to death. I like you, and I like Deirdre. More importantly, London and Nate care about you both. Don’t fuck this up.”

I’ve never meant any words more than the ones that come out of my mouth next. “I won’t.”

When the men are gone, I don’t give myself time to think about a drink before tearing apart my house in search of my cell phone. Twenty minutes of destruction later, I find it under a stack of unopened mail on a table by the door.

There’s a tiny sliver of battery left. Sinking to the ground with a pathetic groan, I pull up a contact and hit Call before the monkey in my head can convince me to stop.

“Hey, bro, I don’t fucking care what you say, I’m coming over—”

“Finn,” I croak. “I need help.”

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