Chapter 3
VINCE
For the third night this week, I barely sleep. It’s not the normal tossing and turning of trying to get comfortable. No, this is the wired, restless, wound-tight kind of night that happens when my body refuses to shut down.
The pain isn’t sharp tonight, just a heavy, dragging weight that makes every position feel wrong. The blanket ends up twisted around my legs, my pillow on the floor, my arms bent at odd angles. It’s a battle I can’t win.
Sometime around five, I give up, sitting up with my elbows on my knees, palms pressed against my eyes as I try to breathe through the ache. My lower back screams in protest.
If I stay still, it throbs.
If I move, it stabs.
If I think, I spiral.
I glare at the stairs, like they’re the thing failing me and not my body. I long for the soft mattress in my room, but the battle to get there never feels worth the risk. So I stay here, on my pathetic couch that has definitely seen better days.
I need to find a new place to live. It’s just the truth.
This apartment isn’t right for me anymore.
But the search hasn’t been encouraging. Day after day, I browse endless listings of two-story nightmares or single-story money pits and always come to the same conclusion: there is nothing safer than where I currently live.
At least, nothing in my budget. San Diego isn’t known for affordable housing.
Frustrated, I reach for my guitar and let my fingers trail over the chords. The quiet sound grounds me, helps the time pass, even with the pain. It’s becoming harder and harder to play now that I can’t feel the chords half the time. But I’d rather cut off my hand than stop playing.
Eventually, I force myself up to get dressed. I volunteered to go in early today to help with stocking the freight delivery while Jordan is gone. The extra hours will be nice. Well, nice for my bank account anyway. My body will say otherwise.
After freshening up in the downstairs bathroom, I reach for a pair of jeans.
The rough, heavy material is uncomfortable against my skin, and my fingers tingle instantly.
It’s not a gentle tingle either. It’s that pins-and-needles kind of prickling that makes them feel numb and electric at the same time. I’m so damn sick of the sensation.
Pulling the jeans up, I struggle to get the button through. I try again. And again. By the fourth try, my hands shake with rage. Why is this so difficult? I’ve dressed myself my whole life, yet now I can’t do a simple button?
Giving up, I kick the jeans aside and snag a pair of clean track pants from the laundry bin on the floor.
It goes against everything in me to dress this way.
But Declan has worn athletic pants a few times to work—certainly he won’t care if I do too, right?
It’s not like we have a strict dress code or anything.
Basically, just don’t come in looking like a bum.
As I pull a clean shirt on, I can hear my father’s voice in the back of my head, telling me to do better. Dress better. Be better. He used to bark orders like it was a second language, never once looking at me long enough to see how hard I was trying. All he saw was my flaws, my hesitation.
With him, it was perfection or nothing. Strength or shame. And my mother encouraged it.
I poured everything into being the son they demanded. Quiet. Capable. Self-contained.
Independent.
That part stuck the most. Independence became armor. A skill. A damn religion. When the army came along, I fit right in. Discipline, structure, self-reliance—those were things I could do. Things I could excel at. If I kept my head down and my boots moving, no one could say I wasn’t enough.
Even now, at thirty-eight, independence is still the only thing that feels like mine.
And it’s fading fast.
I feel it slipping away a little more each day. Every spasm, every stumble, every button that won’t fasten—it’s like my free will is being burned alive by this god-awful electric current inside me.
And worse, I can do nothing to stop it.
Finally, dressed and ready, I sit at my dining table with a mug of coffee that tastes burnt even though I just made it. I scroll mindlessly on my phone to pass the time. I have two hours still before I need to be at the bar.
A notification pops up from an old friend, his name bringing a small sense of relief that’s immediately undercut by the guilt tightening in my chest.
I scroll up to read through his earlier messages, each one left unanswered.
One sent three days ago: Hey, man. You alive? It’s been a while.
Sent yesterday: Seriously, Stone. Check in.
And now, today: I’m getting worried, Stoney. Call me.
The timing is suspicious. Six months of radio silence and now Ace is poking his ugly head in? It’s like he knows I’m going through something.
But that’s Ace for you. He’d always had a keen intuition about our team. Plus, he’s always seen through my facade. Ace is the only one who really knows me.
I type back: Busy week, I guess. I’m good, though. Promise.
My thumb hovers over the send button. Lying to Ace doesn’t sit well, not after all we’ve been through.
I try again: Sorry. All good.
But it’s still a lie. It isn’t good, and it likely won’t be for a long time—if ever.
There is nothing I can say that would be truthful and reassuring. So I send nothing. Let silence do the lying for me.
Closing my eyes, I set the phone face down on the table and push it away.
Like that will make the guilt quieter. Ace is the only person who makes an effort to be in my life.
The least I can do is make an effort back.
But really, what can I say? If I told him my life is hell because my body is failing me, he’d probably just point to his prosthetic leg and say, “Join the club.”
I shouldn’t complain. I really shouldn’t. There are people out there who have it worse than me—he’s one of them. But I just need… I don’t know. Time, I guess? A chance to figure shit out.
I’ll call him when I know something.
My hand tightens around the mug, a dead weight filling the pit of my stomach. It’s the same thing I keep saying for everyone else. Later. I’ll tell them later. Like time will make any of this easier. It’s all a goddamn lie. If my doctor is right, there won’t be any easier at all.
Shake and anger swirl in my blood, so I search for something to pour the energy into. Something tangible. Errands. Errands will work. They’re a good, busy distraction. And they don’t ask questions.
After pocketing my phone, I force myself into action. Laundry, grocery run, swinging by the pharmacy for more pain cream. All good things. Productive things. Useful things—unlike my damn body.
The air feels thick today; the sky darkens as I check each box on my list, like the storm outside and the one inside are racing to see which can break me first.
Finally, after hauling two loads of laundry back upstairs, I sit down to sort through it until it’s time to go.
What an exciting life I lead—that managing a pile of clothes makes me feel accomplished. Still, it’s the most I’ve managed in a few days.
By the time I get to the bar, I’m exhausted.
Which means it’ll be harder to hide my symptoms. Only Melody, Oliver, and Declan are here so far.
Melody and Oliver are unloading freight in the storage room, so I grab a box and head to the kitchen.
My lower back screams and my spine locks up for a second, nearly making me drop the produce.
I bite back a curse and grip the counter.
“Damn, Vince,” Oliver calls from behind me. “You moving underwater today or what?”
The comment isn’t mean. Not even close. But it grinds something inside me anyway. I draw in a breath through my nose before answering.
“Didn’t sleep much. I’m fine.”
I slip through the swinging door before they can say anything else, hyper-aware of everything now—the lights, the noise, the lingering irritation. I try to shake it off, but it sticks to me like glue.
I hate that people are noticing. Hate that I’m slowing down. That my damn body keeps betraying me in these small, humiliating ways. Soon, I won’t even recognize myself.
An hour later, I’m hauling a box of liquor to the bar when a loud pounding comes from the front door. We still have an hour before opening, so I ignore it. But when it pounds again, harder this time, I grumble a complaint and wander over.
Fletcher stands there, blond hair soaked from the rain and looking miserable. He points to the lock, pleading through the glass, “Let me in.”
I turn the lock and open the door a few inches, prepared to ask him what he needs, but Fletcher pushes right past me into the entry. He shudders and shakes his hair out, causing cold droplets to hit my face. It feels amazing, even if it makes me acutely aware of how overheated I am.
“It’s really coming down,” Fletcher says, glancing outside.
I bite back my annoyance. “We’re closed.”
“I know. I’m here to talk to Declan.”
I narrow my eyes.
He reveals a plastic clipboard from inside his jean jacket. “He asked for a quote to remodel the restrooms, so I told him I’d come by before you opened today to drop it off.”
“Oh.”
He brushes a hand over his long beard, gaze holding mine for a beat. His smile is so simple and soft, as if he’s genuinely glad to see me. Warmth spreads through me when his gaze travels down my body. “You look good today. Relaxed or something. Feeling better, I take it?”
I look away, ashamed of these damn pants. “Declan is in his office. I’m assuming you know where that is?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be out of here in a few.” He claps me gently on the shoulder before walking away. The touch lingers long after he disappears from view.
I return to unloading the boxes, but move a little faster. Two seconds with me and Fletcher had caught my unusual change of clothes. His attention isn’t nosy—more like he’s tuned in without even trying. It makes me uncomfortable.
Makes me feel something else I don’t want to think too hard about either.