Page 116 of Playboy Pitcher
“The one where we’re going to find out what Drake the snake did to make Willow go all wackadoodle so you can fix things with her.”
My hand tightens around the neck of the beer bottle. Too bad it’s a piece of glass instead ofthatasshole on the receiving end. An alcohol-diluted image of Willow on her knees outside the stadium forces its way into my head, and my chest burns with dual flames of rage and regret.
I made the mistake of looking in the rearview mirror before driving away and saw her. I almost turned around and then pressed the gas pedal so hard, I almost plowed into a minivan. It killed me to turn my back on her, but she left me no choice. There’s only so much a man can take before he calls it quits.
Lifting my head, I settle my gaze on the black bag sitting by the wall just outside the hallway. “It’s not my problem anymore.”
Emma’s eyes follow mine, and her coiled body tenses. “Where the hell are you going?”
“New York.”
“What?” I purposely avoid her shocked expression as she leaps to her feet. This is why I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving. Why I booked the first flight out of Palm Beach International. To avoid answering questions that, frankly, are nobody’s goddamn business.
But just like her sister, this kid draws the truth out of me like a damn syringe.
“To visit my family. Since my career is over, I find myself currently unemployed and in need of a job.” I smirk. “Might as well learn the family business. Besides, I need to get the fuck out of Florida.”
“So, you’re just going to give up on her?” she yells. “Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
Instead of more yelling, Emma gets deathly quiet. “Then you’re no better than him,” she says, backing away and turning toward the door. “You’re no better than any of them.”
I know I’m an asshole. I know I have faults. But I sure as hell won’t sit here and be compared to a man like Drake Prescott.
“Watch it,” I growl as I leap from the couch and storm after her. However, I’m half drunk, and she’s nearly half my age. By the time I catch up to her, she’s already out the door. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I shout, grabbing her arm.
Emma stills, that sharp green glare finding mine. “No,youdon’t. Everyone in Willow’s life has either left her or walked out on her. Something was always more important than her. She let her guard down for you, you dumbass!” Her voice cracks as she lands a hard punch in the middle of my chest. “She let you in, and now you’re no better than the rest of them.” Sighing, she bows her head. “I thought you were different. I thought you were my friend.”
I never knew it was possible to have your heart ripped out twice in one day. “Iamyour friend, Emmaline.”
“No,” she says, jerking her arm away. “You’re just the asshole who gave up on my sister.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Some sayyou can’t go home again. For eight years, I believed that with every fiber of my being. I held it as gospel. Once a chapter ends, there’s no flipping back through the book. Move forward or give up. There is no alternative.
I never realized how wrong I was until I open the door to that Park Avenue penthouse and my childhood home welcomes me back like a long-lost friend.
The same marble foyer meets my feet, drawing me inside where a sunken-in living room and tall windows look out over Central Park. It even smells the same. A bizarre combination of newly laundered linen and freshly baked bread.
I smile to myself.
Hailey has been here.I’d know the lingering scent of her sourdough anywhere.
Dropping my bag in the foyer, I peek into the stainless-steel kitchen to find it empty, an unexpected stab of disappointment slamming into me. I don’t know why, though. I didn’t tell anyone but Emma that I was coming. It’s not like I expected fanfare and a ticker tape parade.
Still, the silence humming through what used to be a home filled with constant noise and laughter is sobering. It just reinforces how badly I’ve screwed up.
I’d give anything for someone to talk to.
“Baaaa!” The sudden, shrill squawk almost stops my heart. I damn near shit my pants, when I’m met with a tilted feathered head and blinking black eyes. “Baaaa!”
I flip my middle finger. “Fuck off, Huey.”
“Baaaa! Fuck off, Huey!” he repeats.
Great.Nothing caps off being dragged through hell quite like having its ambassador greet you at the door. Especially one with a thirty-year identity crisis.
