Page 1 of Full Out Fiend

Chapter 1

Fielding

“You’rekillingus,”Jakemutters before lining up another twelve shot glasses. “I’m gonna start making you pour these yourself if you keep this shit up.”

My focus jumps to his face, and I anxiously search for genuine hostility behind his jibe. The logical part of my brain knows he’s joking, but there’s still a residual uncertainty on my end when we interact.

He finally looks my way and casts me a reassuring eye roll.

I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding before finding my voice. “Don’t pretend like you don’t love it. Admit it, man. I’m good for business.” I sit a little straighter and puff out my chest.

He smirks and mutters under his breath about being good for something.

I fight back my own smile, reveling in how amazing it is to be in his good graces once again, then take a sip of the beer I’ve been nursing for the last hour as I scope out the scene on the dance floor.

The Oak is packed, the vibe downright jovial. Nineties pop blares through the speakers, and there are more asses shaking to the beat than filling up the seats. Jake can bitch all he wants about the extra work I create when I buy rounds of shots for the bachelorette parties that frequent his bar most weekends, but he freaking loves this.

Besides, who am I to deny the ladies of Hampton when they’re out on the town, celebrating a bride’s last hurrah? I like to think of my generosity as contributing to the greater good.

They drink for free.

The Oak maintains its status as the place to be each and every weekend.

And more often than not, I land myself a distraction for the night in the form of someone who isn’t spoken for.

There was a time when happily married was just my type.

I silently jeer at the self-deprecating thought. It’s going to be hard enough to push down memories a la Victoria Thompson over the next two weeks. No point reliving that shit now.

Volunteering at Camp New Hope may not be the best idea I’ve ever had, but I need the clinical hours to meet the conditional requirements of my acceptance into medical school. And the camp needed a volunteer to run the first aid tent.

It’s not like she’ll be there. I cleared that with the director before I committed.

But still.

I drain my beer, then watch Cole line up the shots on a tray.

“You coming?” he asks with a smirk.

“Nah. You know I like to sit back and watch the magic unfold.”

He shakes his head and chuckles before he navigates through the crowd of gyrating bodies on a path to the closest bridal party. Mere seconds pass before their squeals of delight rise above the cacophony of the whole bar belting out a Britney song. I can’t resist raising my phone and snapping a selfie to send to my brother.

Fielding: Don’t worry, bro. The ladies of Hampton won’t go thirsty tonight. Upholding the Haas family tradition at The Oak in your honor.

When my phone vibrates a few seconds later, I expect to see a response from my brother, but it’s his girlfriend.

Little Wheeler: BEHAVE, Fielding. Dem and I are supposed to be having a relaxing weekend before my classes start back up. Do NOT give him shit to worry about right now.

Fielding: Every party has a pooper…

Little Wheeler: Guilty. I’d rather shit on your parade than have to clean up a mess from California. Love youuuu

“Hmph.” I scoff at her preemptive scolding, but I can’t really judge her for jumping to conclusions. I have a solid record of creating or finding myself in situations that require my brother to save my sorry ass.

Cole shifts back behind the bar, still balancing the tray in one hand. He sets it down gingerly, then looks up and juts his chin in my direction.

“One left,” he declares. As if I can’t see the lone shot with my own eyes. “You want it?”