Chapter 2
Parker
Present day
“Yo, Parker, one more shot, man. Come on!”
“No way, ruin your own liver.”
Plus, I was already two shots past buzzed, and among my many faults the past couple of years, public intoxication was not one of them.
I kept that shit private, where no cameras could blast it over social media.
Robertson, who did a fantastic job protecting our quarterback, was slightly less fantastic at handling his liquor in public. Next to him, his girlfriend was doing some strange, slinky, hands-in-the-air movement that was probably meant to be sexy, but I kinda worried that she was about to trip over her own feet and face-plant into the table of our roped-off VIP area.
Right on cue, she stumbled on her own purse and pitched forward.
I stood and caught her arm before she could go straight through the table filled with glass bottles. “Easy there, Cora.”
She giggled, turning to fling her arms around me in a sloppy hug. “You’re the best , Parker.” Her breath smelled like tequila, and I couldn’t help but worry I might get contact drunk just from smelling it. I cursed the more impulsive me from yesterday, who agreed to come with them to Vegas for a night.
But hey, that was what I did lately, wasn’t it?
Some mad, invisible search for flickers of life, no matter where I could find them. I was trying—trying very, very fucking hard—to keep that search in less impulsive, wreck-your-liver or break-someone’s-heart type pursuits the past few months.
Sitting at home was driving me up a fucking wall, though, so when Robertson told me they were flying to Vegas for two nights, I told myself it would be fun. It would be a harmless distraction. I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to let go like this on my next trip.
Sheila was far more worried than she let on, and I had the feeling she was one step away from staging a full Wilder Family intervention. She wasn’t even being particularly coy about it: the invitation to a weekend at home that wasn’t really an invitation. It was a command, and that sweet, supportive woman didn’t command us very often.
When she did, we listened.
And dear Lord, if my giant fucking family gathered en masse for one single thing, I did not want that thing to be my sad, burned-out little life. Being the object of their pity was enough to drive me up the fucking wall. I’d already been the object of their frustration the past couple of years, and the idea that my sisters might get it in their head to fix my life and find me a girlfriend, or my brothers would sit me down for a stern talking-to? No, thank you.
I just needed to show them that progress was being made, even if I was shuffling forward one inch at a time after we lost our dad.
Boom .
Just like that, I felt that uncomfortable twist of grief in the pit of my stomach.
It was the thought of him, something simple, not even a specific memory, and I had to remind myself all over again, just like I did every morning.
He’s gone.
He’s not here anymore.
I leaned my head back against the velvet couch, trying to stem the immediate racing of my heart that always accompanied the cold slap of reality. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
You should be , a voice whispered at the back of my head. It shouldn’t be this hard for you.
Despite what I told Robertson about being done, I leaned forward and poured a shot of the tequila, then tossed it back, eyes closing at the warmth bleeding through my chest and stomach. The music was so fucking loud as I sat there for another moment, but even that couldn’t cut through the depressing haze of my own mind.
God, I was sick of myself. Sick of my own company, and there was nothing I could do about that, was there?
Just empty, empty, empty.
I stood from the booth and slapped Robertson on the shoulder. He lifted his head from where he was busy making out with Cora. “I’m out, man. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Hell no, you’re not leaving,” he yelled. “It’s like, midnight! In Vegas . We have hours left.”
I smiled easily. “I don’t. Sorry. Thought I was in the mood to party, but I’m gonna make my way back to my room.”
Cora pouted but still gave me a hug and a sloppy tequila kiss on the cheek. When she pulled back, she giggled. “Whoops, I left a little lipstick.” She leaned in to try to wipe it off, but I gently took her by the shoulder and pushed her back.
“I got it, Cora. Don’t worry.”
She sighed, all happy and drunk. “You’re the best, Parker. You’re so nice . And you’re so hot. Why aren’t you married yet?”
I gave Robertson a tap of the fist. “Because you’re already taken, sweetheart. That’s why.”
She giggled, and Robertson glared at me over her head.
I winked, then leaned down to snag my Portland Voyagers hat off the table, fitting it on my head before I left. My sister always gave me shit that it was the worst sort of disguise—to wear the hat of my team when I went out somewhere trying not to be recognized—but that was half the fun to me. I didn’t mind being acknowledged because people were usually nice and friendly. At home—a small town in Oregon called Sisters—everyone left me alone, so the hat was more of a habit than anything.
An unobtrusive security guard unhooked the velvet rope to our area, nodding deferentially as I walked through. From my back pocket, I took out a hundred and slipped it in my palm while I shook his hand. “Thanks for your help tonight,” I told him.
He nodded again, pocketing the tip. “Have a great night, Mr. Wilder.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that Mr. Wilder was my dad, but forcing those words out of my throat would require a giant metal hook and chain to yank them up, so I merely smiled and jogged down the steps toward the bar.
Midnight was early by Vegas standards, so the bar Robertson picked wasn’t packed with writhing bodies seeking release just yet. High-top tables glowed from LED lights underneath the glossy surface, and servers dressed in skintight black outfits weaved in and out, carrying trays of shots on their shoulders with deft precision.
One such server paused in front of me, her ample breasts spilling out from the low-cut black top. Her eyes—large and dark—were heavily lashed and full of interest. I was used to that. “Shot?” she asked. “It’s on the house. I’m feeling … generous tonight.”
On a different night, months and months ago, I might have felt a flicker of interest right back. It never worked, though. It was never more than an empty release and that hollowed-out feeling inside me that never disappeared.
I quit doing that, though, searching for it in strangers with hero worship in their eyes. The last time I woke up in a small apartment I didn’t recognize, a few weeks before my dad died, head splitting open from a deathly hangover, and a note from someone I didn’t remember telling me she had to go to work but thanking me for an amazing night, I only made it as far as her bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach.
“No thanks,” I told her with a slight smile.
The disappointment was there and gone in a blink, but I was used to that, too.
She moved briskly past me, and I rolled my neck until I felt a pop, ready to be back in my hotel room where I could crack open a beer and watch some SportsCenter and eventually stare up at the ceiling while I tried to sleep.
I was used to that too.
A shrieking bachelorette party moved in a line past me, moving faster than they had any right to, and I hopped backward so they didn’t knock into me, colliding with a soft body behind me. After a hasty apology to a woman who’d already dashed off to find her friends, I looked up, eyes snagging on a table along the far wall of the bar.
I noticed the hair first, a quick zing of interest shooting down my spine before I could stop it.
I’d only known one person with hair that color of blond—lighter than I’d ever seen before and falling down her back in luscious, thick waves—and if the person with that hair was sitting at this bar in Vegas, it was entirely possible that I was going to have a fucking heart attack right where I stood.
My pulse gave an uneven thump when the owner of that hair turned on her seat, crossing impossibly long legs underneath the table. Even though everyone around her was dressed for dancing, for sex, and for sin, she was wearing a black T-shirt and very short denim shorts, the stringy hem riding up when she leaned forward, allowing for a clear glimpse of toned thigh.
Her hand came up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, and when her profile came into view—the delicate jaw, the high cheekbones and the long eyelashes—I felt it.
Click. Boom .
Like someone pressed a button and an atomic bomb went off in my chest.
I hadn’t seen her since my sister’s wedding. And the last time I’d been in the same room as her, there was a diamond on her ring finger. It wasn’t there now.
When the hell did Anya Hennessy get un-engaged?
God, the sight of her was a shock to my system.
Weaving through bodies toward their table, I knew going over there while I felt like this—desperate to wade into any sort of connection that sparked a feeling beneath my ribs—was a fucking horrible idea.
I hadn’t thought of her in a couple of months and had long made peace with the thing I’d felt at Adaline’s wedding was no more than head-spinning lust. Attraction to an inconvenient person.
It wasn’t even lust that I felt right now. It was interest. And interest in anything felt like someone set the paddles to my chest and yelled clear!
When she tipped her head back and laughed, a thick, heavy cloud of anticipation curled around all those empty spots inside me.
The wise thing would’ve been to take a minute to try to figure out what happened and why her ring finger was decidedly bare. But I didn’t wait. And I didn’t pause. Eyes locked on that table, I approached with my hands in my pockets and a slight smile on my face.
Chase this feeling , my head screamed. Don’t let it go anywhere.
Her friend saw me, her dark eyes narrowing first before widening in recognition. Under the table, she kicked Anya.
Anya laughed. “Ouch. Keep your feet to yourself, Vida.”
Vida, with the vicious right foot, long braids that hung down her back, and a tiny diamond in her nose, cleared her throat, giving me a pointed look over Anya’s shoulder. “I just thought you’d want to say hi.”
Anya glanced in my direction, her mouth falling open slightly as she did a double take. “Parker? What are you doing here?”
My gaze traced her face for longer than was polite. She had a light dusting of freckles over her nose, the obvious flush of alcohol in her cheeks, and the bright-eyed look of someone having a lot of fun.
“And to think I was just about to leave,” I told her as I stood between Anya and her friend. “That would’ve been a tragedy.”
Her friend nodded, eyes wide and serious. “It would have been. We’d need to take a sad shot for that.”
Anya gave her a sharp look, then returned her attention to my face, down my chest and to where my hands were safely tucked away. Inside the pockets, my fingers curled up helplessly.
“A sad shot?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” She gave her friend a stern look. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”
“Also a tragedy.” I tilted my head. “You look incredible.”
“You, however, look like hell.” When my eyebrows shot up on my forehead, she slapped a hand over her mouth and groaned. She dropped her hand. “I’m so sorry, I’ve had a lot of sad shots.”
Her friend cackled. “I can’t believe you just said that. You should apologize to the very handsome man.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I told her, but kept my focus on Anya. “She’s right, of course. I don’t sleep much anymore. The women in my life are very concerned.”
The friend leaned in, movements exaggerated by the alcohol. “And do you have a lot of those?”
“Too many,” I sighed. “My stepmom Sheila, three sisters, and three sisters-in-law. It’s unbearable, really. Imagine the fussing when I come home with these big, sad dark circles under my eyes. They won’t leave me alone.”
The friend nodded sagely. “I bet. You can tell us all about it. Anya’s a wonderful listener.”
Anya laughed. “Quit encouraging him. Believe me when I say he doesn’t need it.”
I turned to the friend, holding out my hand. “Parker Wilder.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” She grinned, teeth blindingly white and straight against the dark skin of her face. “I’m Vida, the best friend and terrible influence.”
“Well, best friend Vida, are you two in Vegas for work or play?”
Anya let out a scoff, sitting back in her chair to watch this play out.
“Work, mostly,” Vida said. “But I dragged Anya out for some play, and now we’re deep into a drinking game.”
Anya groaned. “No, Veed, you can’t tell him,” she whispered loudly, her hair falling over one shoulder in a thick wave when she reached forward to swat at her friend’s arm. "We are not talking about this.”
I eyed the hair greedily. “Tell me what?”
Anya grinned in my direction, a dimple appearing on either side of her mouth. “About the sad shots.”
Before I leaned in closer, I turned my hat backward so I didn’t bash her in the forehead. “I am remarkably curious about those.”
Vida produced a bottle from an ice bucket I hadn’t seen when I approached, filling two shot glasses. “We’re comparing stories. Whoever wins makes the other take a shot, and right now, it’s pretty fucking even, Parker. Maybe you can be our ref.”
“Maybe I want to play the game. Who says I can’t win a round or two?”
Anya snorted. “Oh no. I’ll win.”
Eyes wide, Vida gave an exaggerated nod.
I braced my arms on the table. “Tell me.”
Shot glasses filled in front of us, Anya sighed heavily. “Do I have to? I’m declaring a moratorium on any mentions of He Who Shall Not be Named.”
“Voldemort?” I whispered. “I think you can say his name here.”
Vida cackled. “Oh, I like him.”
Anya rolled her eyes. “Great, now he’s never leaving.”
Vida tapped the table. “Let’s put a pause on the moratorium, just for the next five minutes.”
“I’ll go first if that helps,” I said.
“Tell us your tale of woe, Mr. Millionaire football player,” Anya teased.
I picked up the shot glass and held it between us. “My dad died a little less than a year ago, and I wasted an entire year before that being so mad at him for not getting treatment that I didn’t go home. I wasted all that time. I’m now stuck in a vicious cycle of self-loathing and self-hatred that had me close to exploding my career by drinking too much and sleeping around, and I can’t find it in me to care. I’ve done just about anything I can think of to numb myself, and even though I’ve largely stopped all that, now I’m stuck. My family is desperately worried about me, and I don’t know how to fix it because I can’t forgive myself.”
Anya’s mouth fell open.
“Damn,” Vida whispered.
“Let’s all take one, shall we?” I said smoothly even though my throat felt raw. How could they know that I’d never said that out loud? To anyone.
Anya’s eyes were locked steady on mine as she sipped her shot, only finishing half of hers. I took mine with a quick jerk of my neck and slammed the glass down on the table.
“Vida. What’ve you got for me?”
She hummed. “After two years of building my nonprofit from the ground up with the help of tremendously generous people, my grant just ran out, which was my primary source of funding, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”
Vida took her shot, Anya watching her friend with sad eyes.
“How much do you need?” I asked. “I’ll write you a check.”
Anya raised her hand. “I offered too. I just need to find a husband and bolt down to the chapel, and I’d be loaded,” she said, drawing out the last word.
Now it was my turn to have my mouth fall open.
“What now?” I asked, head tilted.
Anya waved me away.
Vida grinned. “Let’s talk tomorrow when we’re all sober, all right?”
I stared at Anya for a few more seconds before I nodded absently at Vida. “Fair enough.” I turned toward Anya. “And what about you, my lady? No one as pretty as you should have anything to be sad about.”
She groaned, eyes glinting in the dimly lit bar as she smiled. “You’re so terrible at this that I can’t even be surprised that you’re single.”
I leaned closer. “So you were surprised I was single at the wedding? Tell me more.”
Anya pursed her lips. “That’s a horrible pickup line, and you know it.”
“It’s not,” I stated. “You always accuse me of such horrible things when all I’m doing is telling the truth.”
“Holy shit, this is like watching the start of a porno,” Vida whispered.
Anya slapped her friend’s arm. “Vida .”
“What? Like the really high-quality kind. You’re both just so attractive, it’s hurting my eyes.”
“Come on.” I nudged Anya’s foot under the table. “Tell me.”
Anya sucked in a deep breath, blowing it out through puffed-out cheeks. “I got fired a couple of weeks ago because of downsizing, and two days later, a story went public about how my fiancé’s been cheating on me with at least six different women for the entirety of our relationship. Three of whom were prostitutes that he’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on over the past year and a half.”
For a beat, I just stared at her.
“Max Bridges cheated on you ?” I asked. “The meathead linebacker with no neck and the IQ of a lamp post?”
Okay, so I googled it after meeting her at the wedding. I went back to my room with another piece of cake and googled Anya Hennessy.
Vida slapped the table. “That’s what I said. He’s not even that cute!”
“He is cute,” Anya protested.
“Oh no,” Vida murmured.
“What?”
She sighed, gesturing to Anya. “Here we go. She’s kind of an emotional drunk.”
Anya sniffled. “He was so nice at first, and I always thought he was a terrible liar because of his eyes. Kind eyes, Vida! That’s one of the first things we said about him.”
“And … he was sleeping with half a dozen hookers,” Vida supplied. “We are not romanticizing him, sweetie.”
To my utter horror, Anya’s eyes—a bright, vivid blue that I’d never seen before or since—filled with tears. “I know,” she wailed. “But I was with him for four years, Vida.” She turned those eyes toward me, and I swear to God, I’d used my bare hands to pull the ribs from that man’s body for making her look even half this miserable. “Four years. I planned our wedding.”
“You sort of planned it,” Vida pointed out. “Think about how long he wanted you to set a date, and you kept finding reasons not to.” She turned her eyes toward me. “She knew. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”
Anya covered her face and mumbled something that neither of us could hear.
My eyebrows bent in a disbelieving V. “Max Bridges, really?”
She closed her eyes, then dashed her hand at a tear that escaped. “Really,” she whispered. “It was sweet and solid, you know? Comfortable. He didn’t live the loud, party life that most people think of with an athlete.”
There was no stopping the grimace because wouldn’t I be a giant fucking hypocrite if I said anything.
“That,” Vida said, “is the most depressing part of all of this.”
Anya groaned, covering her face. “No, I am not saying that out loud. Moratorium is back in effect. No more Max talk. Ever.”
The neon-bright flare of interest hummed dangerously, and I found myself moving closer. “What?”
“Tell him,” Vida commanded. “He looks like a man who should know this information. I promise, it’ll make you feel better when he loses his mind.”
Anya peeked at me between her fingers, and just like at the wedding, there was a reckless impulse that I decided to follow, gently plucking her hand away from her face. “Come on, you know you want to.”
Her breathing increased, her eyes searching mine while I played gently with her fingers. “You can’t laugh at me.”
“I would never,” I promised solemnly.
Silently, Vida tipped back another shot. “A fucking porno, I swear,” she muttered.
“It’s not like, funny haha,” Anya continued. “It’s actually very depressing, considering how h-happy I was. Or I thought I was,” she amended quickly. “Now I’m just … really pissed off.”
“Okay.” I tugged her finger up to my mouth and nipped at the edge, and Anya’s mouth fell open, her pupils blown wide as I dragged my teeth over the pad of her finger. “Tell me this depressing, not-funny thing.”
Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, she didn’t look drunk at all. Those bright eyes were remarkably lucid as they stayed locked on my own. “Maybe ironic is a better word because he literally could not keep his dick in his pants.”
My mouth curved in a smile. Her fingertips traced over my lips and Anya let out a shaky exhale. “Tell me,” I commanded gently.
When she leaned closer, she smelled like something sweet and clean. Briefly, I eyed the line of her throat and wondered if she’d notice if I licked her there. Just for a second. Anya laid her hand on my arm, and I blinked back up to her face as she sucked in a fortifying breath. “He was terrible in bed, and I just didn’t know any better because he was my first.”
“What?” God, my voice came out all low and horrified.
Vida made a disappointed humming noise. “I know . Look at her. So smart. So fucking hot. What a waste, right?”
“No,” I said to Anya. “No, honey, tell me that’s not true. He’s the only man you’ve been with, and…”
“Never,” she whispered. “He’s never given me an orgasm. I always had to … you know … finish myself.”
I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. “I can’t take this. You’re killing me, sweetheart.”
Vida laughed. “Don’t you just want to fix it for her?”
My head snapped up. “Yes .”
Anya held her hands out. “See? I win.”
I grabbed the bottle and poured us all another shot. “This is a bullshit game. Sad shots for everyone.”