She stays put, her smile growing. And I’m fucking glad I now have an excuse to carry her. Daisy annoying the fuck out of me—that’s a common back and forth we have in front of the paparazzi.

I swiftly pick her up, my hands on her hips, and I toss her over my shoulder. She lets out a laugh, and I rest my palm on her ass.

Yeah, her father doesn’t really fucking like me.

This won’t help.

Connor thinks I’m an idiot to do things that put me in a bad light—especially since I don’t bother to clarify my intentions. But in the end, they’re going to think what they want to think. I can’t empty my soul to every person who thinks I’m an asshole. I can’t even empty it to the people who matter.

When we reach the doors to the bar, I gently set her down, and the cameramen are shoved back by some bouncers. We’re let in almost immediately, passing a long line of people who’ve probably been waiting for thirty minutes to enter.

The moment the door closes behind us, the noise only intensifies. Boisterous drunk people—not my favorite fucking setting. Some of them are models, beautiful features, thin girls.

And there’s my brother. He actually looks like a model, easily fitting among them with his sharp cheekbones.

His ass is on a fucking barstool, the pub smoky. Connor is right beside him, drinking a glass of water like nothing is wrong.

I’m going to kill them.

“Daisy!” a girl exclaims. A freckle-faced model, really young, hugs Daisy with a big smile.

“Christina!” Daisy grins. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes flicker to me once like I’ll be okay. Go to your brother.

So I let her catch up with her friend while I make my way to the bar. “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on Lo’s shoulder. He sips his Fizz, acting like there’s no alcohol in the dark-colored soda. “How was shopping?”

“Boring,” Lo says, eating a fry from a plate that he shares with Connor. He glares at the shelves of liquor behind the bar, looking like a murderous little fuck. I don’t know how else to describe my brother when he starts drinking. He always has that I hate you and everyone in this fucking place look. The difference is that now it’s intensified by a thousand.

I nod repeatedly, my eyes flashing hot. I grab the fucking stool beside him and drag it over to fit in between him and Connor. I’m not going to let Connor near my brother right now, consoling him. Lo doesn’t need a fucking safety net, so I cut it off in one move.

Connor stays quiet, not arguing with me.

I flag down the bartender, a young French girl. “What can I get you?” She speaks English well.

“What he’s having.” I point at the glass.

Lo finishes off his drink in one swig. “I’m done. Let’s just get out of here.” He stands.

I clamp my hand back on his shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I want a fucking drink.” I force him back in his seat.

“You sound like Dad, you know that?” he retorts, shooting a bullet my way to get me to stop.

That’s not good enough. I need him to tell me what he just did. I ignore him, watching the bartender make my drink. She puts in the ice.

“Ryke,” Lo snaps.

I turn to him. “What?”

I think he’s going to come clean, but I realize he’s watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Then he says, “Let’s go.”

“I told you. I want a fucking drink.”

He goes quiet, and the bartender squirts Fizz into the glass. I’m guessing she’s already added the alcohol while I was looking at Lo.

He clenches his teeth and rests his forearms on the bar, deep inside his head as he stares off. I wonder if he’s going to stop me. I want him to admit that he drank. Instead he continues to stay silent, even as the bartender slides the glass over to me.

“Refill?” she asks Lo.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

“Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed fucking eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo.

This is a high stakes game of chicken.

And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a fucking word.

I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey.

Scotch whiskey.

He drank alcohol.

The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring him for over twenty years.

I set the glass down.

And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what happened.

I just broke my nine years of sobriety.

I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”

“Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”

I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on fucking fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.

“He’s done,” Lo says. When he turns back on me, he adds, “If you’re this big of an asshole sober, I can’t imagine what kind of asshole you are drunk.”

I grab his arm before he jumps off the stool and disappears through the tightly packed crowd. “You can’t do this shit,” I growl. “You’re supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out of it.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you!” Lo shouts all of sudden. He hops off the barstool, and I follow, having only an inch height advantage. We face each other, unresolved hate strung between us.

He doesn’t know anything about my childhood, and I don’t expect him to ask. All I wanted was a chance to undo what I had done wrong. To be there for him, to be his brother, and Lo makes it so fucking hard. He never gives me a reprieve like Connor.

“Then call Lily,” I say, “your fucking fiancée, who would be in tears if she saw you right now. Did you fucking think about her when you drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”

Lo’s face twists. He won’t punch me. “I’m done with this shit,” he says. He’s about to walk away.

I grab him by the arm, not letting him go that easily. “You can’t run from your fucking problems. They’re there twenty-four-seven. You have to deal.”

“Don’t talk about dealing. You won’t even text Dad back. You’re ignoring him like he’s not even alive.” He shakes his head, venom pulsing in his eyes. “You’re doing the same thing to him that you did to me. So why don’t you just do what you do best and pretend that I don’t fucking exist.”

His words slice cleanly through me, the pain like a fucking swift punch to the gut. Lo never needs his fists to fight. He shoves past me, and Connor stops him before he leaves the pub, calming him down.

I hold onto the bar, training my breath to normalize. When it does, I scan the crowds for Daisy. I spot her with Christina and another male model, his jaw chiseled. He leans in close to Daisy, licking his lips as he talks.

What the fuck?

Not tonight.

Seeing that—it’s enough for me to start weaving through the fucking people to reach her. I don’t like her body language that’s angled towards Christina, away from the guy, silently telling him to back off.

They stand by a high-table littered with beer bottles and spilt liquor. The taste of scotch still lingers on my tongue, making me nauseous. Some people recall the perfume their mom wore with fondness, the cigar smell on their late father’s shirt, the cologne, the shampoo—but for me, I smell and taste scotch and I remember my father sitting across from me in a fucking country club. I remember his sharp gaze, his fingers tapping the glass in annoyance, as though the world moved too slowly for him.

I feel like I ingested my past, full of bad memories. It’s a sickening nostalgia.

I try to ignore it as I approach Daisy. The moment she sees me, her face brightens, but it dies down when she absorbs my features. “Do we need to leave?”