Seth hasn’t seen Lacey in months. Now she’s in Nashville, having flown a red-eye to be with her sister, Sal, during the torturous wait for Luke to wake up. She had arrived tonight and apparently followed him back to his apartment.
Lacey’s accusing eyes land on him. “You should be at the hospital. You should be there with Sal, not here ready to sleep off a bender. Luke needs you, Seth.”
He flinches. “I ain’t in the mood, Lacey.”
Lacey props her hands on her tapered waist. She knows where his mind has gone and it’s nowhere good. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”
“Did Sal say that?” he asks bitterly. “Or hell, maybe Jace asked you to come by, smack some sense into me.”
She sighs. Her mouth turned down into an unhappy scowl. “I know what happened and I’m the one saying it’s not your fault.”
But it is his fault.
He nearly got his brother killed. Him and his big fat fucking mouth.
It’s been years since Seth started a fight, let alone lost his temper at a gig. But two nights ago, down on Broadway, he did.
Seth braces himself against the memory, but he’s helpless to stop it. It’s a freight train approaching, and he’s right in the goddamn way.
The Brothers Kincaid, plus Sal, were in the bar, grabbing a drink before their show. A couple of rednecks in a corner booth were talking shit about their band, about Sal. Luke wouldn’t start a fight, especially with Sal there, but Seth didn’t have the same high standards as his brother. He’s a nice guy, but you fuck with his family and all bets are off.
So, he shot his mouth off about something he can’t even remember now. When the fight threatened to get physical, Luke stepped in, trying to defuse the situation, trying to talk everyone down. Arms up, hands out, he said to the redneck, “Hey, man, we don’t want any trouble. Let’s just forget it and go our separate ways.”
They all agreed. But when Luke turned to walk away, the redneck cracked him across the back of the head with a beer bottle.
His brother stood stunned, then he fell.
And Sal—
Sal screamed, her voice shredding on Luke’s name, some awful, unearthly sound, as she collapsed to her knees. Her hands hovered around Luke’s head. The blood on her hands as bright as a spotlight.
All Seth could do was stare at his brother’s lifeless body lying in a pool of blood.
Then he snapped.
Fists flying, he was on the redneck so fast he could have killed him. He nearly did. “Motherfucker, you are a dead man,” he hissed before Jace dragged him off the guy.
From there it was a blur. The ambulance, the hospital, the Nashville Star, the police and their questions, everyone gathering, coming for Luke.
If Seth would’ve listened to Luke and walked away, then his brother wouldn’t be in a hospital bed right now, hurt, unconscious, God knows what else.
His fault. All his goddamned fault.
“Seth?”
Lacey’s soft voice floats over him, pulling him from his memories.
Seth blinks, his mind foggy. When he looks up, all he sees is the light of the moon shining through the window and her thin silhouette.
He turns away from her, not wanting her to witness him at his lowest. “You gotta go, princess. Go on, get outta here.”
She doesn’t budge. Any other person he’d kick their ass out, but he knows he doesn’t move Lacey.
He trudges to the couch and sits down. Time to make his mind a big blank slate.
Lacey opens her mouth to yell at him, but the snappish retort drops from her lips. Her green eyes light on the coffee table, the bag of powder.
Slowly, she crosses the room and lowers herself beside him on the couch.