Page 93 of Until August

It wouldn't be pretty if I went to battle with his mother. He’d be scarred for life.

Could I really do that to him?

And then there was Travis Fucking Jones. He’d paid off my bills, and now I was in his debt.

Whenever I thought things were finally getting better and everything was falling into place, the rug got pulled out from under me. A-fucking-gain.

How would I ever compete with a man who had paid off my debts? He’d ridden in like a white knight and rescued the damsel in distress. Nobody could play that role better than Sasha. She was born for it. All she had to do was bat her lashes, and men fell all over themselves to help her.

I’d only been gone forone yearwhen she ran into his arms. How’s that for loyalty? I could only imagine the sob story she’d given Travis.

Nothing could make a man feel so small as knowing another man had stepped in to clean up the mess he’d left behind.

And right now, I felt about two feet tall with a heart so heavy I could barely breathe.

My father’s words came back to me.

“I wish you’d died instead of her, you little shithead. You’re not even my kid, but I’m left with the mess.”

Needless to say, there was no love lost between us.

To this day, I had no idea who my real father was or if he was so drunk that he didn’t know what the hell he was saying.

But I remembered his words so vividly that they were permanently etched on my brain. They’d stayed with me longer than the pain of being backhanded by the drunk I called Dad.

I felt very much like my father’s son at this moment.

An asshole.

A mess.

Unworthy of my next breath.

So I did exactly what he would have done.

I swung my truck into a parking space, climbed out of my truck, and pushed through the front door.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

Nicola

I blinked a few times,trying to adjust to the dim lighting as the door closed behind me. The Last Stand, aptly named, smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, even though smoking had been banned years ago.

It was the kind of place where dreams went to die.

It wasn’t the first time I’d had to rescue someone from this bar. Two years ago, Belinda got so drunk she fell off her stool. Luckily, she was fine except for a split lip and a headache the following day. And years before, I’d driven Scarlett here to rescue Dylan.

Now I was here for August.

There were a few others hunched over their drinks at the bar. But my gaze homed in on the man scowling into the amber depths of the glass in his hand.

I slid onto the stool next to him, and bloodshot green eyes met mine.

“What are you doing here?” he slurred.

“We talked on the phone. I told you I’d be right over.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. He’d come to my rescue once before, and now it was my turn.

He snorted. “Why the fuck would you do that?”