Will
Yelling breaks through the steady hum of conversation out front, and I stand up from my desk, groaning as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Not again.
I put out my cigar in the ashtray near the pile of invoices I’d been sorting and make my way through the narrow hallway toward the front of the bar. Before I’ve even stepped past the swinging doors, I hear the scuffle. Chairs scraping, glass clinking, and voices raised.
And then I see him.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking Liam Stone.”
Drunk. Again. Jaw clenched, eyes wild, fists clenched like he’s two seconds from breaking someone’s nose. And of course, he's squared up against a tourist. The poor guy’s wide-eyed, probably just said the wrong thing or looked at him sideways. Hard to say what’ll set Liam off these days.
I don’t wait.
I storm across the floor and grab Liam by the back of his neck just as he rears back to swing.
“Calm the fuck down,” I bark, loud enough to stop every head mid-turn. “Or get the hell out of my bar.”
Gasps. Awkward laughter. A few whispers.
Liam shoves at my arm, but I tighten my grip, dragging him backward like a disobedient teenager. The tourist backs off quickly, hands up like he wants none of this. Smart man.
I push Liam through the hallway, past the kitchen, and into my office before shoving the door shut behind us.
He stumbles, half-spins, and collapses onto the couch like a man who’s been pushed around too many times to care anymore.
“Don’t make me call the sheriff, Liam,” I say, dead serious.
He scoffs without looking at me, falling back against the couch with a loud, drunken sigh. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” I snap. “And I know for a fact he won’t be happy to see you again.”
He shrugs like he couldn’t care less, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Fine. Call him. See if I care.”
“I’m giving you one chance,” I say, voice lowering. “So use it. What the hell’s going on with you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sits there, slumped over, looking like hell. His shirt’s wrinkled, his boots scuffed, and he smells like whiskey and like he hasn’t showered in a few days.
Then, with the clumsy determination of a man just drunk enough to think it’s a good idea, he digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
“Celebrating,” he mutters, thumbing at the screen until he finds whatever he’s looking for. Then he holds the phone out to me, eyes glassy.
I take it, eyebrows drawn.
“Am I supposed to know what this is?”
He just stares at me, jaw clenched.
I look down.
An ultrasound image fills the screen. Two tiny figures, side by side, black and white but unmistakable.
My brows lift as I scroll. The message is from Phern, and of course, she’s not exactly subtle.
Phern Stone
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