That’s dedication, man. I mean, shit. I’ve known for years how fucking repulsive I am, but still, this is a new level. Even for me.

Suddenly I want another shot of tequila so badly that my hands are fucking shaking with it. Normally I’d ignore the urge, but it’s been a hell of a week already and it’s only Sunday. A few more shots won’t hurt anyone.

Except as I wander toward the bar for the Herradura, Luc stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Dude. What are you doing?”

“Getting a drink.” I hold up the bottle. “Want one?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the fucking morning.”

“Then I’m getting a late start. I should probably have two.”

“Really?” he asks, ripping the bottle of tequila out of my hand. “This is really how you want this to play out?”

“No, how I want it to play out is with that bottle of tequila in my hand, not yours. Give it back.”

“Fuck, no.” He walks to the bar sink, empties the entire bottle of Selección Suprema.

“That’s three hundred dollars’ worth of tequila you just poured down the drain, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re in the middle of throwing away about five million dollars in talent and endorsements, so what the fuck. Three hundred bucks doesn’t really mean shit to you, does it?”

“Not really, no.” I reach under the bar and grab one of the spare bottles I stock up on this time of year, in case of just such an intervention.

Luc watches in disgust as I crack the shit open and take a long swallow right from the bottle. It burns all the way down, but that’s okay. It’s just proof that I can still feel something.

“You’re acting like a total loser, you know that, right?”

“That’s not acting. It’s just truth in advertising, my friend.” I toast him with the bottle before taking another swig.

“Goddamnit.” He wrenches the Herradura out of my hand and throws it against the wall. Except it doesn’t make it. Instead, it takes down a sculpture halfway across the room, and I watch with something like awe as they both crash to the floor and shatter.

For long seconds neither of us says anything. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Except—

“My dad liked that sculpture.”

“Your dad hasn’t been here in three years,” he tells me as the pungent scent of tequila fills the air. “He won’t even have a clue that it’s gone.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that.”

I stare at the destruction blankly, not sure what we’re supposed to do now. This whole intervention thing has happened a bunch of times—Luc, Ash, and Cam have been staging one around this time for years. But this whole bottle-throwing, sculpture-shattering move is new, and I’m not sure how to respond to it. We’ve been doing the same old song and dance for so long that anything new messes everything up.

Except Luc doesn’t seem to be playing. Not this time. As he stalks toward me, there’s no remorse in his face. No let’s-feel-sorry-for-Z-because-he’s-gotten-a-raw-deal look. In fact, the only thing I can identify in his face is pure, unadulterated fury. It’s kind of interesting, really, and there’s a part of me that wants to see what’s going to happen next. The rest of me just wants to walk back upstairs and sleep until this whole week, this whole month, is done with.

“What is wrong with you?” he yells, his face suddenly inches from mine. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Hey, dude, you’re the one in the middle of the temper tantrum.” I hold my hands up in the universal don’t-blame-me gesture. “Maybe you should ask yourself that question.”

“You’re pathetic, you know that?”

“Obviously.” I lift a brow at him. “If you’re trying to piss me off, you’re going to have to work harder than that.”

“What the hell, Z?” He backs off, runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “We’ve been playing this scene out for years, and I’m tired of it. Tired of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Tired of coming in here and trying to pick up the pieces after you fucking shred yourself into nothing—”

“Hey, I never asked you to put the pieces back together. I never asked you for anything.”

“Because you’re a total fucking coward. Everyone thinks you’re so fucking brave with all those stunts you pull. So fucking noble to face the ‘tragedy’ of your past and still live your life on your terms.” He opens his arms wide. “But look around, asshole. There’s nothing noble about you. Nothing noble about drowning yourself in tequila. Nothing noble about fucking girls whose names you can’t remember when they’re still in your damn bed. And there’s nothing fucking noble about throwing your life away because your sister lost hers.”

“Don’t you talk about her.” I’ve been keeping my cool so far, mainly because Luc hasn’t said anything I don’t already know. But the second he talks about April, it’s like a shot of fucking adrenaline to the heart. “Don’t you fucking talk about her.”

“Why not? Because it will upset you? Because it’ll make poor little Z cry?”

“Fuck you, man!” My hands started shaking the second he brought her up, and I shove them in my pockets, hoping he won’t notice.

“Wow, great comeback,” Luc mocks. “Did it take you all day to think of that?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You know exactly what my problem is. You’re just not man enough to face it.”

“You know what? I don’t have to stand here and take this. You’re in my house, not the other way around. So why don’t you show yourself out before shit gets said that can’t be taken back?”

“It’s too late for that, don’t you think? And we’re not in your house. We’re in your daddy’s house. Your daddy’s mansion. Poor little rich boy—”

I launch myself at him before I even know I’m going to move, plow my fist into his jaw. “What the fuck do you know about it anyway? What the fuck do you know about anything?”

“I know more than you.” He shoves me hard, nearly sends me sprawling on my ass. “Look around, Z. You have everything, everything, and you’re just pissing it away.”

“What have I got? Huh, Luc?” It’s my turn to throw my arms wide, to turn around in the middle of this fucking mausoleum that I hate but still can’t find the energy to move out of. “I’ve got a big fucking house that no one else wants. Big fucking deal.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got everything right in front of you. You’re just too scared to fucking take it.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true.” He gestures to me. “Look at yourself. It’s three weeks before the fucking Olympic trials, man, and what are you doing? Trashing your body? Trashing your life?”

“I don’t give a shit about the Olympic trials.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. You’ve made damn sure we all know it, haven’t you? You fucking prick.”

“Get out.” I turn, head for the staircase. “I don’t need to listen to this.”

Luc moves fast, gets in my way. Refuses to let me pass. “This is exactly what you need to hear.”

“Get out of my way, man.”

“Not until I say what I came to.”

“I think I’ve heard more than enough.”

“You haven’t heard shit. You never do. You’re too locked in your own head, too busy being self-absorbed and tortured and fucked up to hear what you need to.”

My hands clench into fists. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“What are you going to do? Hit me again?”

“Yes, goddamnit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t get the fuck away from me.”

“Have at it.” He spreads his arms wide. “You’re mad at the fucking world. Mad at yourself. Mad at your mother. Mad at your sister. You might as well be mad at me, too.”

I swing my fist into his stomach, follow it with an uppercut to the jaw that lays him out on the floor. “Is this what you want?” I shout at him. “Is this what you fucking want?”

He climbs gingerly to his feet, his fingers probing at the bruise I can already see forming on his jaw. “What I want is for you to man up. Stop being such a pussy and get your fucking act together. You’re rich—”