Throw it away. Just flush it down the fuckin’ drain, man.
The voice inside Seth Kincaid’s head is insistent, damn near on a tear. But he doesn’t listen. He can’t. Instead, he sits on his couch staring at the baggie of white powder, his vision blurry from alcohol, from tears, wondering if he’s got anything left to live for anymore. Wondering if everyone back at the hospital hates his sorry, pathetic ass.
Because he sure as hell does.
Because if anything happens to his brother, he’ll never forgive himself.
“Fuck,” Seth says, shoving at the coffee table. He falls back against the couch and rips a hand through his hair. Contemplates a dangerous habit he hasn’t touched in over ten years. Snorting down a reckless line of white powder, searching for that slow sink into numb oblivion.
That’s all he wants to do.
Forget last night.
Forget the image of Jace and Griff practically carrying a grief-stricken Sal to Luke’s hospital room.
Seth leans forward. He wants to make a mistake. Make the awful feeling in his heart go away.
The baggie’s heavy in his hand. A distraction, a death wish, he doesn’t know. But he could find out. He wants to find out. Wants to go back to ten years ago, make his OD permanent, make his dumbass-self null and void.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Luke.
His brother’s the glue that holds their family together. The backbone of the band. How can they live without Luke? It should have been him. Not Luke. Never.
A pounding on the door has him opening his eyes.
“Go away,” Seth shouts, waving his arm in what he thinks is the direction of the sound.
But the knocking’s insistent, grating.
Gritting his teeth, he shoves off the couch, wading through his drunken haze, stumbling for the door. When he gets there, he braces a hand on the door frame. Briefly, he watches the room spin. Then he squares his shoulders and yanks open the door.
The blast of icy air hits him hard, and he isn’t talking about the chilly September night.
Lacey Sutton stands there, arms crossed, a scowl on her pretty face. Her golden-blond hair falls around her shoulders like corn silk.
“Go away,” he repeats, though he doesn’t know if she heard him the first time.
She lifts her chin, haughty. Not bothering with a hello, she says, “You left the hospital, Seth. You left Sal. And ...” She sniffs the air, levels him with a decisive eye. Her nostrils flare. “You’re drunk.”
He damn sure is drunk. Earlier tonight, he fled the hospital for the nearest bar. He couldn’t handle the conversation or the scene. Everyone sitting on hard plastic chairs, waiting for Luke to wake up, wondering, worrying about a brain bleed. Sal, holding hands with Jace, never looking at Seth, and it was killing him, not knowing if she blamed him.
When he returned, five strong drinks in, Lacey was there. He doesn’t remember how he got back to the hospital. He could barely walk a straight line, let alone piece together what the doctors were saying about Luke’s potential head injury. Finally, it was Griff, damn Griff Greyson, who had taken him aside. “Go home, Seth, you’re scarin’ Sal,” Griff commanded. But what Seth saw in his eyes wasn’t the irritation they usually had for each other.
It was pity.
Seth moves to shut the door on Lacey, but she shoves a long, trim leg into the opening.
“Goddamnit,” he swears, stopping the door in time from crushing her limb. “You ain’t comin’ in, Lacey.”
“I am and I will.”
With that, she elbows her way inside.
Seth watches blearily as she blows in like a hurricane, ready to thrash everything in her path, including him.
He groans, smearing a hand down his face. The click-clack of her high heels is like a miniature drill on his brainstem, but instead of leaving like he expects her to, she slams the door and locks it.