Page 2 of The One

Rhett

Present Day

Ishouldn’t fucking be here.

There wasn’t a single ounce of me that had any desire to look toward a stage and see a half-naked stripper dancing across it. Or to celebrate Brady Spade—our business partner—and his fiancée’s joint bachelor and bachelorette party. Or to look at my brother and sister—whoshouldknow what today was—and Brady’s brothers, along with their best friends, the Daltons, and try to act like I wasn’t slowly dying inside.

Because I was.

Beneath my skin—my muscles, bones, even my blood—felt like it was all dissolving, as though acid had been poured across my body.

Some days were meant to be spent in a room of darkness. On those days, the only energy I wanted to exert was to pull the covers over my fucking head and swallow the whiskey down my throat and exhale the smoke from my joint, hotboxing the bed.

That was what I wanted today to look like.

But I wasn’t in bed, high, drunk, lying in total blackness.

I was here.

I’d been dragged to this strip club by Ridge and Rowan, my siblings, and every second I sat in this chair nagged at my nerves and tested my patience—all of it coming to a screaming peak when I felt an arm wrap around my shoulders.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’d rather be at a club right now.” Ridge’s hand cupped the edge of my triceps.

A dance club.

I wanted to fucking laugh, but I didn’t know how.

A place that would have music worse than what was playing now, where my nose would be filled with the salty scent of sweat every time I breathed.

At least here, all I could smell was despair.

An aroma I knew far too well.

My eyes closed. “That sounds as insufferable as this.”

“You all right, brother?” He waited. “I know the last few months?—”

I turned toward him and barked, “Don’t talk to me about the last few months. Not here.”

Ridge was referring to our father, who had passed away. A day I’d like to forget. But a day that replayed, like the other, causing the knife already in my chest to turn faster and deeper, creating an even bigger hole.

“And not now.”

“I hear you. My bad.” He squeezed my shoulder. “But is that what’s bothering you—Dad?”

I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together, my hand getting ready to tighten into its perpetual fist. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” My teeth ground together.

How can he even ask me that?

Why the fuck do I have to spell everything out?

Can’t he read between the obvious lines and stop making this harder on me?

“How about you help me out and just tell me the reason, so I don’t have to keep racking my brain?—”