“Hey, Dom. Sure, help yourself. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

I chuckle because it’s the same thing he always says and help myself to a glass. The fiery liquid burns a trail down into my gut and I down the entire thing, then pour another.

“What happened the other night?” Dad asks without preamble. “You can’t go around assaulting people. I don’t care how pissed you are.”

I shrug. “I just found out that Fiona’s dating Cris. I don’t appreciate it and I told her so.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “And then you showed Cris with your fists? I always told you, Dom… I don’t want you to start things. You can always finish them, but don’t start them.”

I shake my head and set my glass down. “Cris started this long ago, Dad. And there’s going to come a point where I need to finish it. For real.”

My father levels his green gaze at me. “You ever going to tell us what the hell happened with you two? He spent almost as much time here growing up as you did. If there’s something I need to know, I’d appreciate knowing it.”

My gut tightens.

It’s not that I don’t want to tell them. It’s that I can’t. I can’t fucking talk about it. Every time I try, the words freeze in my chest and they won’t pass my tongue. They’re just too fucking ugly to say.

My father raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

I shake my head. “It’s between him and me. If Fiona doesn’t want to listen, that’s her problem.”

Dad rolls his eyes and downs his whiskey. “I thought you’d say that. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that he’s coming tonight. We didn’t know you were or we wouldn’t have invited him.”

I stare at him dumbly. I shouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t even call to tell them I was coming. But still. It’s my fucking home and I shouldn’t have to tiptoe around wondering when and if Cris fucking Evans will be here.

Shit.

“Great,” I mumble. “It’s been good seeing you.” I stand up and turn to walk out.

“Don’t start that shit,” my dad warns. “You should’ve called to tell us you were coming.”

I know he’s right, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I excuse myself to call Tally.

“Any news?” I ask him. He sighs into the phone.

“They’re not happy, but there’s not much to be done about it. They’ll delay filming and they’ll film as much as they can without you. They’re wanting you to come home on the weekends though, to film. You’re gonna have to make that work.”

“I’ll get my lawyers on it,” I answer. “I can’t see that would be a problem. I don’t have to be at Joe’s on the weekends.”

“What’s it like, anyway?” Tally asks curiously. “Community service?”

I think about the dingy gym and roll my eyes.

“It’s awesome,” I answer sarcastically. “You should come and help.”

“Nah, I think I’ll just see you when you get your ass back here. Hurry it up. I’ll tell the studio to expect you soon. I know Amy Ashby is pissed. This is going to throw off her schedule for her next film, too. You’re going to have to smooth things over.”

“She’s actually at my brother’s tonight,” I tell him grudgingly. “I could’ve seen her, but I’ll do it another time. I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re never in the mood,” Tally grumbles. “That’s why she’s pissed at you.”

That’s also true. If Amy had her way, we’d rehearse our sex scenes in my trailer, down to licking each other’s nipples and getting each other off. But I don’t feel the need. And I just don’t fucking want to. She’s another one of those high-maintenance party girls who needs attention all the time. I just can’t deal with that.

I hang up and head back down the hall, glancing at the framed family pictures as I pass. Pics of me, Sin, Duncan, Kira, Fiona, Cris… and Emma.

I stop for a second, the air whooshing from my lungs as I stare at Emma’s sparkling blue eyes staring back at me from one particularly painful picture.

She’s tanned and healthy, and she’s wrapped her arm around my neck a second before my mom snapped the picture of us in our graduation caps. It was the last picture we’d taken together.

It was the last picture she’d ever take.

A knot forms in my throat as I stare at the necklace she’s wearing, a gift I had given her. A happy-graduation/I-love-you/can’t-wait-to-go-to-college-with-you gift. A teardrop-shaped aquamarine that perfectly matches the color of her eyes is encased in a white shell that she’d plucked from Lake Michigan. I’d had it made especially for her, and she’d worn it until the day she died.

I reach into my pocket and wrap my fingers around it, feeling the cool stone.

Her parents gave it to me afterward, and I’ve carried it in my pocket every day since… because it reminds me.

Of everything.

I gulp and yank my hand away from it, like it’s a hot coal that will burn me. My problem is that I’m stuck in limbo… I don’t want to remember and I don’t want to forget. If I remember, it hurts like hell. But if I forget, it might happen again.

And that’s one thing I know for sure.

I’ll never let myself get fucked over like that again.

Chapter Eight

Dominic

As I head down the main hall to find my mom, I’m startled when Cris steps out of the kitchen doorway. I stop in my tracks for a moment, staring at him.

“Care to come outside? I’d like to talk to you,” he says gruffly, his voice hesitant and filled with a thousand things I can’t name.

His eye is swollen, which gives me some satisfaction.

“I have nothing to say to you,” I answer finally. “So, no thanks.”

I start to brush past him, but he grabs my arm in an effort to get me to stay. I look at him sharply, straight in the eye, a get-your-fucking-hand-off-me look, and he loosens his grip. I guess he learned his lesson the other night.

Fiona pops ups behind him, her face cautious and sullen.

“Please,” Cris adds. “You need to hear this, but I don’t think we should talk about it in here.”

“Fuck you,” I tell him abruptly, pushing past him to the dining room. “Fuck you.”

“You’re such a dick,” Fiona snaps after me. But I ignore her. I just keep walking until I find my mom and I pause to kiss her on the forehead.

“I love you, but I won’t come here when he’s here.”

She protests and grabs at me, but I walk past her, out into the yard and to my car. I ignore the way Fiona yells after me angrily, the way Cris stares at me as I leave, and the disappointed expression on my father’s face. I ignore it all.

Because I’m Dominic fucking Kinkaide and nothing bothers me. Nothing touches me, because I won’t let it.

Against my will, my eyes sting and I know they’re red. I rub at them and then fire up the engine. Even though it’s only nine P.M. and Sin’s party will be going full force soon, I head back there… because I don’t have anywhere else to go.

There’s about a million cars lined up on Sin’s property when I get there, and I almost want to turn around and drive back out. But I don’t. Instead, I park in the garage and make my way into the house, picking my way through the dark.

I wind through the crowded rooms, making my way around the perimeter toward the staircase. As I reach the bottom step, I feel someone watching and I glance to the side.

Jacey is standing still in the middle of the room, dressed in her uniform, letting a party guest lick salt off of her forearm for a tequila shot. She’s heavily made up tonight: thick mascara, red lipstick. She smiles up at him with those red lips, a fake smile, and as she does, she catches sight of me.

She freezes in shock, although, what the fuck? I’m the one living here temporarily. I belong here, she doesn’t.

Suddenly, a guy comes rushing up to me, someone I don’t know. A very drunk someone.

“Dude, can you sign my shirt for my girlfriend? If I take home your autograph, I’ll get laid for a month.”

He grabs at my arm and I shake him off in annoyance.

“Dude. If you were lucky enough to get invited here, then you should know not to approach anyone for autographs.”

I’m not usually so rude to fans. But my mood gets the better of me. The guy stares at me, stunned, and I continue on my way. As I do, I feel Jacey’s gaze.

She pulls her arm away from the guy, sets down her tray of shots, and makes a beeline for me.

I turn my back on her, intent on continuing up the stairs without acknowledging her, but she won’t have it. She grabs my arm, forcing me to look at her.

“Are you all right?” she demands. “That was pretty harsh.”

I glance down at her, into her brown eyes, and find her to be sincerely concerned. I must look seriously rattled if she noticed that something is wrong. She barely knows me. Her fingers are warm on my arm, and for a minute I waver.

She’s warm and soft and concerned. I know what that might turn into.

A wild night that will make me feel better.

Women are all the same: they want to fix what is broken and they’re willing to do anything to accomplish that. I never talk about my past or anything at all about me, but women can still sense that I’m fucked up. What they don’t understand… is that I’m unfixable.

I stare down at her again, shaking my head.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But she looks at me again, really looks at me, her brown eyes probing mine. “I don’t think you are. What happened?”

“Why does it matter to you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Because something about her makes me think that it does somehow matter to her, and not just because I’m Dominic Kinkaide. Everything I’ve seen of Jacey is wild and untamed… she works for Saffron, pushes cops around, gets dressed in parking lots, and lets men lick salt off her body for tequila shots.

Yet at the same time, she seems warm and real. I haven’t forgotten how she shoved her way in between Cris and I and shielded my body with her own. She’s a puzzle.

Jacey looks confused by my question.

“It matters because you’re not some stranger off the street. You look seriously upset. Of course I’m going to ask you if you’re all right. Who wouldn’t?”

Most of the people I know in Hollywood, I think.

But I don’t say it. Instead, I turn my back and start up the stairs again. I don’t fucking answer to her or anyone else.

“Do you need anything?” Jacey’s voice is hesitant behind me. “An ice pack or anything? That bruise on your cheek looks like it still hurts.”

I pause, not looking at her. Instead I remember her bare leg, stretching toward the sky while her tiny uniform shorts slide over it. The mere memory of the way she’d undressed right out in the open sets my pulse to racing.

Yeah, there’s a bunch of things I need, but only one thing that will take my mind off the reason that I need them.