Page 12 of Jacob

I roll my eyes, dismissing him.

“I’m the odd man out? No pussy for Owen,” he grumbles to himself.

“You don’t need pussy, Owen. You need to sober the fuck up and get your shit together. Have you been drinking all day? Why were you not at work?” Lincoln’s brow wrinkles with what looks like worry.

Owen holds his head in his hands. “I hate my life.”

“Oh, here we go. Poor little rich boy syndrome.” My jesting gains another chuckle from Lincoln as he pats Owen’s shoulder.

“It’s hard being a single playboy, with only a historic castle to live in and flash sports cars to drive.” Lincoln’s voice is laced with irony.

“Fuck off,” Owen slurs. Leaning over too far in an effort to swat Lincoln’s arm away, he loses his balance, and as if in slow motion, he falls sideward off the bar stool, taking my designer Perspex chair with him.

With an enormous echoing clatter, he lands in a heap on the floor.

“Shit.” Lincoln leaps off his chair as I run around the breakfast bar to help.

I swiftly untangle Owen’s trapped leg from beneath the tall chair and stand it upright while Lincoln checks his head for any injuries.

Owen groans in pain.

“You alright, bud?” I bend down to check him over as well.

He rubs his temples. “I’m not alright. My whole body hurts,” he moans, slurring his liquor-fueled words. “And my heart. And my feet.”

“Did he walk here?” Lincoln looks at me for an explanation for his weird reply. I honestly don’t know. Judging by his usually immaculate white sneakers, he’s walked across the fields to get here. They are filthy.

“My head,” Owen grumbles again.

Lincoln grabs a cushion from my sofa, and lays it under Owen’s head, where he still lies on my kitchen floor.

“What are we gonna do with you, Owen?” I sit my ass on the floor beside him and pat his chest.

Owen snaps his eyes open. “Euthanize me. I’m not marrying her,” he spits out before his eyes flutter closed again.

I look at Lincoln. “What’s he talking about?” I question.

“Fucked if I know.”

“You’re not marrying Skye, Owen. You broke up two months ago,” I remind him. My heart will fucking die if he marries her. The very idea causes shooting pains in my chest.

Owen groans again. “Not Skye. You dumbasssss,” he slurs. “Evangeline.”

Lincoln blurts out what I’m thinking. “Who the hell is Evangeline?”

“My wife-to-be.” He raises his hands to the ceiling.

“What?” Lincoln and I both shriek at the same time.

“I have to marry her because of some sort of fucked-up agreement between her family and mine. It’s all arranged. Mom and Dad are a pair of selfish assholes. I hate them.” He lets his hands fall back to the floor, making them slap against the marble. “I have a sore head.”

“It’ll be worse in the morning,” Lincoln helpfully points out.

“And I will lose Skye forever,” he moans as he rubs his temples clumsily.

Lincoln tilts his head to the side in pity and delivers Owen the brutal truth. “You lost her years ago, buddy. If you loved her the way I love Violet, you would have put a ring on it long before now, no matter what your parents said. You were never right for Skye. You fucking messed her about, and your mother never approved of your relationship. It was doomed from the start.”

Owen covers his face with his hands. “You’re a fucking know-it-all. I hate it when you’re right,” he says into his cupped hand, muffling his words. “I’m going to run away.”

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