And his mother would still be dead.And Cal would still have the image of that seared into his brain—something he’d forgotten out of survival or whatever the hell for fifteen years.And now that he’d remembered, he couldn’t seem to work his way around it.
He downed the drink.Alcohol wasn’t the answer, but therewereno answers, so why not try to blot it all out?
“It’ll suck, but we’ll muddle through.We’re all on the same side this time.”
Cal wished he had Nate’s confidence, but at least it was something to agree with.Something to hold on to.
They were going to get through this—whatever shit sandwich it was—together.And maybe that didn’t fill him with any kind ofjoy, but it was right.
It was what their mother would have wanted.
When he finished his drink, asked for another refill, he didn’t miss the quiet look that passed between Nate and Sam around him.He didn’t know what it meant—pity, worry, something else?
It left him feeling like he did at the ranch.That the world was spinning on without him—and he was stuck, stranded.Lost in a past he wanted to leave very far behind and had to live inside in order to put his dad behind bars.
And, as his therapist claimed,heal.
He wasn’t convinced.But he hadn’tstoppedgoing to therapy.Hadn’tstoppedany of this.He kept all that halting progress moving forward, wondering why none of it seemed todoanything.
Since that depressed him as much as thoughts of his mother did, he focused on the world around him—one of thosecoping mechanismshis therapist was teaching him.
He listened to the chatter of conversation, noted the smell of alcohol and tobacco, and old building.He felt his body sit in the stool.Watched with some amusement as a drunk cowboy got thrown off the mechanical bull.
“Gonna hit the bull, Sam?”he asked.
She glanced at the mechanical bull in question.Then met his gaze with a sharp one of her own.“You first, Cal.”
“Can’t.”He patted his side.“Bullet wound.”
She gestured with her glass toward the crowd around them.“You should use that one as a pickup line.”
Cal surveyed the dim, thumping bar.Smoky and grimy.Not exactly his choice for pickup places.Not that he’d picked upanythingin ages.
Impending father on trial for murder with Cal’s traumatic dissociative amnesia as the crux of the prosecution was probably not the time.
But since Nate was sitting next to him like a grumpy lump on a log—no doubt not having picked up anything in ages longer than Cal—Cal flashed a flirtatious grin at the woman no doubt occupying his brother’s thoughts.
“You looking to be picked up, Sam?”
She snorted out a laugh.“I think it’s time to cut you off, slick.”
Probably.But he’d earned a glare from Nate, and that was what he’d been going for.
There were still wins to be earned in this life, it seemed.
*
Nate might haveindulged inonetoo many thanks to his idiot brother.He knew what Cal was doing.Cal did that kind of thing with Aly all the time.Flirt.Look for a reaction from Landon.
Well, Cal wasn’t getting one from him.Cal could flirt with Sam all he wanted, and if she wanted to flirt back…
He’d break Cal’s nose.
The little spurt of internal violence left him feeling like his dad, gross and slimy andtainted.He wasn’t going to hit his brother for flirting with Sam.He wasn’t going to get worked about it at all.Fake.Real.Didn’t matter.
He might have a lot of fucking issues, but he knew he didn’t have a right tojealousy—over Cal or Jake Hayes or any other damn guy who gave Sam a second look—when he wasn’t willing to do anything about his own… issues.
But all ofthatwhirling around inside of him had left him a little too vulnerable and he’d taken that last drink Cal had shoved at him.Even knowing he should have stopped at one.Certainly two.Absolutely three.
