Page 27 of Severed Heart

“Maybe because I didn’t want to get interrogated,” I retort dryly. Ever since Sean got his first taste, he’s become a little obsessed with the fairer sex. Though I can’t exactly say I’m any less guilty. Though it’s more theactof sex that I use to escape when granted the chance.

“Don’t play the gentleman, Tyler. Word is you are far from a gentleman.”

Dom raises a brow at me, and I crack my neck in annoyance.

“Miller is fucking hot,” Sean carries on, “but what I want to know is how in the hell you managed it. She’s had a stick up her ass since middle school, and she’solder.”

I remain silent, ready to rid myself of the fly buzzing between my and Dom’s seats.

“I have a theory,” Sean continues, “future high and tight likes ’emexperiencedandmean.”

“You’re an idiot,” I sigh.

“I heard no denial, did you, Dom?”

Dom smirks but remains quiet, sensing my mood.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being a gentleman,” Sean tosses in, “I treat my girls very well. You’ll hear no complaints.”

“From alloneof them?” Dom jests.

“Don’t hate,” Sean says as I turn off Main and stiffen, fingers tightening on the wheel when I spot my dad’s F-150. Sean remains oblivious as Dom reads my posture and follows my line of sight to where Dad’s truck is parked. Sean can be just as attuned when he wants to be. That thought is only confirmed when silent seconds pass before he finally reads the room.

“What just happened?” he asks, and Dom jerks his chin in response to shut him up.

“No, man,” Sean protests, “shit just got tense in here. Talk to me.”

“He doesn’t want to share the details of his hookups, asshole, let it go,” Dom covers for me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I can get very little past Dom these days. The good part about it is that he won’t force me to address anything I don’t want to, whereas Sean believes group sharing is an entitlement.

Typically, I would come clean to both, along with Tobias, but this is different. Lately, I’ve been sharing a lot less, not telling them about catching Dad cheating or the strange headspace that had me chanting breath count in Dom’s living room afterward. For some reason, I’ve kept it all to my chest.

Probably because it’s too close to a very raw fucking nerve. One I decide I can no longer ignore as I silently pull up to Sean’s house to drop him off first.

“Fine,” Sean spouts resentfully, grabbing the duffle packed with his football gear, “but you guys are dicks for not telling me.” Sliding open the van door, he thinks better of his parting words and stares between us, all animation gone. “You good, Tyler?”

“Yeah, man, I’m good. I’ll hit you up later.”

“All right,” he says, palming my shoulder before he and Dom exchange a look I don’t bother to gauge or decipher.

Both know it’s been hell on earth for Mom and me at home, and neither has pressed me too much for details, but the heaviness is there.

Once out of Sean’s driveway, I pull to a stop sign and click the signal, though no one is behind me. Dom doesn’t say a word as I sit for a full minute, maybe two, while he patiently waits for me. “Can I ask a favor?”

He nods without hesitation or asking what the nature of the favor is. One I don’t give him before turning in the opposite direction of my signal.

Minutes later, I’m pulling up just outside the hole-in-the-wall at the end of the shopping center. Putting the van in park, I scan the building and mostly vacant parking lot before glancing back over to him. “Only step in if you have to.”

Dom nods, needing little else in the way of information, as I slam my way out of the van and stalk toward the entrance.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps” blasts through the frigid air, filling my ears as I step through the tinted glass door. Once inside, I scan the bar, which is littered with dollar store Halloween decorations. Cheap, cardboard cutout jack-o’-lanterns collectively grin at me from where they’re taped to every post supporting the drooping tiled ceiling of the hole-in-the-wall my dad’s claimed as a second home. It takes seconds for me to spot him on his resident stool.

The difference between now and when I get the call to come and retrieve him is that the woman he’s seeing is currently hanging all over him. It’s as if there’s any decency in making sure she’s absent when I scrape him from his barstool. Fury lights a fire in me as I watch the man I once revered publicly cheat on my mother.

It’s his smitten expression that has me crawling out of my skin as she practically grinds on his lap. Rounding the bar, I bide my time in a dark corner concealed behind some draped glittering black-and-orange tinsel, bristling in wait. My patience is rewarded when, not long after, she peels herself off him, heading toward the hall that leads to the restroom.

Circling the bar, I watch him down the last of his pint and signal for another. Seething, I stalk toward him, gaining momentum and advantage I utilize when his head snaps only an instant before impact. Slamming my palms into his chest, I shove him with every bit of the fury rolling through me, a sickening satisfaction flooding my veins when he lands flat on his back, the pleather stool rolling away from him.

Gasps and shocked murmurs sound around me as I kneel to where Dad landed just as a set of worn boots approaches inside my periphery.