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“You better not be pouring yourself the good shit and giving me something cheap,” Jerry called.

I laughed. Even now he had no idea.

“Don’t worry,” I said, walking toward the living room. “I’ve got something even better for you.”

Jerry laughed. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

He was still sprawled across the couch, head resting against the cushion, one leg stretched out in front of him. His eyes stayed on the television as I came up behind him. He did not look at me. Why would he? As far as Jerry knew I was Richard Kincaid. The guy he had spent years following around Preston. The guy whose parties he invited himself to and whose women he spent even longer wishing he could fuck.

He trusted me. That was his mistake.

I swung the meat tenderizer into the side of his head.

The impact knocked Jerry sideways before he had any chance to understand what had happened. The corner of the metal head caught him just above the ear, splitting the skin on contact and opening a bloody gash along the side of his scalp. Blood immediately poured through his hair and ran over his ear, streaking down his cheek and neck as his body folded over the arm of the couch.

Jerry hit the floor hard on his hip and shoulder. The bourbon flew from his hand and shattered against the plastic-covered floor, scattering glass and liquor around him. For several seconds, he didn’t try to get up. He remained on one elbow with his other hand pressed against the side of his head, blinking rapidly as though the entire room had shifted around him.

Then he pulled his hand away.

His palm was covered in blood.

Jerry stared at it without comprehension. More blood continued running from the wound, slipping between strands of his hair and tracing thick paths down the side of his face. His eyes finally found me. Then they dropped toward the meat tenderizer in my hand.

“What the fuck, Richard?”

I smiled and walked around the couch.

The confusion disappeared from his face. Jerry shoved himself backward across the floor, his movements clumsy and poorly coordinated after the blow. His heels slipped through the bourbon and broken glass while one hand remained clamped against the side of his head. Blood smeared across his fingers whenever he touched the wound, leaving red handprints on the plastic as he tried to push himself farther away.

He knocked into the overturned table and sent several bottles skidding across the plastic-covered hardwood before his back finally struck the far wall.

There was nowhere else for him to go.

“Richard!”

Jerry sat against the wall with his legs stretched awkwardly in front of him, trying to push himself farther away with his heels even though the wall was already against his back. Between the bourbon and the blow to his head, he couldn’t seem to coordinate his body well enough to stand.

“Stop. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Sorry, Jer. I just can’t have you around Samantha anymore.”

Jerry’s eyes darted past me toward the foyer. I watched him measure the distance between himself and the front door, calculating whether he could get around me before I caught him.

His eyes snapped back toward mine.

“You’re not going to make it.”

For once, Jerry didn’t have anything clever to say. He remained against the wall, breathing hard with one bloody hand pressed against the side of his head, staring at me as though the Richard he knew might eventually come back.

That was the funny part.

Jerry had spent years around me. He had been inside this house more times than I could remember. He had drunk my liquor, followed me to parties, watched me take women upstairs, and spent half of Preston wishing he had my life. After all that time, Jerry Collins had never actually known me.

“This is fucking insane,” he said. “She’s just some girl.”

My smile disappeared.

That was the wrong fucking thing to say.