Chapter Twenty-Five
Phoebe
TWO YEARS AGO
THE JOB THAT SHALL NEVER BE NAMED
Manhattan, New York
“Who proposes to someone in two months?” The rhetorical question leaves my lips as rose petals flutter from my palm. I scatter them across the floor of a penthouse suite in a snazzy five-star hotel.
Rocky stages the bar, popping a champagne bottle and dumping the contents down the drain. His gaze swings to me. “In this case, someone disgusting who gets off on deflowering women.”
I am a virgin.
At least that’s what my fiancé believes. Patrick Alistair. The twenty-five-year-old senator’s son swiped right on my profile sixty days ago.
All kinds of dating apps exist online, but people only ever really hear about the mainstream ones. But there are dating apps for every kind of flavor, and it just so happens that the My Valentine app is for virgins. Its business model states how it helps unite two heterosexual individuals who are abstaining until marriage.
It took me an hour on the app to recognize that it’s a hotbed for wealthy men to find girls, offering them money and trips. Some called themselves sugar daddies. I didn’t mind the ones that were up front about being sugar daddies. It was the Patrick Alistairs that left a sour taste in my mouth.
He claimed to be a virgin.
I knew he wasn’t.
He made me visit a doctor to have her confirm my hymen was intact. We had to rent an office space, convert it into a women’s clinic. Addison Tinrock pretended to be a doctor, and she kicked out Patrick when he tried to stay in the room during the procedure. Once he was gone, Addison rolled her eyes like he disgusted her, too, and we shared a look like we were glad he was going to be fleeced.
It’s been an eventful two months. I’ve dodged most kisses and physical forms of affection, which Patrick has accepted as a sign of my purity and demure demeanor. It’s only reeled him in more.
He’s gross in a different way than handsy dirtbags at bars. His face writhes in revulsion when he sees a girl wearing a sundress in public. If he catches sight of even the slightest PDA, he calls her a whore. His judgment toward women has made me burn up and seethe, and I’m elated this job is cycling to an end. So he can finally get a nice kick to the balls.
Rocky finishes staging the bar with emptied glasses and spilled liquor. I toss the last of the petals on the king-sized bed.
There is one final task before completing the job, and it’s staring me in the face.
Rocky crosses the room, seizing my gaze. We haven’t talked about the last thing our parents told us before we left for the hotel.
Everett, Addison, and my mom gathered us together at a safe location in Brooklyn. The fancy brownstone they were renting was a part of their lavish New York lives, and my mom was playing the role of my sweet-hearted, fashionable aunt this time.
I wished Hailey was doing this job with us. I hadn’t seen her in a couple weeks since she was in Staten Island getting new passports from Carter for the next job.
“They have to be convincing,” Everett said to my mom and Addison, tension high in the living room. A fireplace crackled, and no one was seated. We were all on our feet, and Rocky gripped the mantel like he was forcing himself not to implode.
“We will be,” I assured, not totally understanding why they thought we’d fail to pull the rope.
My mom slipped me a kind smile. “I have no doubt, bug. We’re just trying to figure out what the mark will believe.”
Everett shifted his weight with slight ire. “This is called Your Lover Is Cheating—not Your Lover Might Be Cheating. If he walks in on his fiancée kissing another man, you think he’s the type to be sold that easily?” Everett looked between his wife and my mom. “Because I don’t think he’ll accept it.”
“They’ll be under bedsheets,” my mom volleyed, her arms weaving over her baby-blue chiffon Vera Wang dress, complete with an elegant halter neckline. “His imagination will fill in the blanks.”
Addison looked vexed and upset as she pushed her cat-eye Balmain frames up the bridge of her celestial nose. “He’s right, Bethy.” She spoke to my mom. “He wanted in the room to see her hymen.”
I touched my burning temple, roasting as they discussed my freaking hymen in front of Rocky and his dad. I cast a quick glance to Rocky, and his tightened jaw could’ve cut glass. He wasn’t staring at me, though.
“He’s a pig,” Addison snipped. “A pig who wanted proof of her virginity. He’ll want the clearest proof that it’s been taken.”
“I could go back to the fake doctor,” I offered. “You could tell him my...” I was on fire. “...that I’m no longer a virgin.”
My mom shook her head quickly. “No, we have to pull the rope earlier.”
Addison nodded. “Once he catches you, his fiancée, in the act with another man, we need this to wrap up immediately. He can’t have time to make good choices. Good choices for him are—”
“Bad things for us,” I finished what Hailey’s mom always said.
“Exactly.”
Everett expelled a rough, troubled breath. “So there’s supposed to be no room for doubt, and the mark has to believe his fiancée is cheating on him instantly. And he won’t believe that if he catches them just kissing in a hotel room because...” He waved his hand to my mom to finish.
She stared off in thought, twiddling her diamond stud earring. “Because he might convince himself it’s nothing.” Concern softened her voice. “He could delude himself into believing what he wants to see. That his fiancée is still pure.”
Addison drummed her lips. “The other principal is supposed to come in and verify what the mark sees.”
Oliver was the other principal. He’d grown a two-month friendship with Patrick, and recently, he warned him against marrying me.
Patrick wanted to live with his head in the sand and pretend like I was his perfect picture of purity. And then Oliver had suckered him in by saying, “If this blows up in the future, it could destroy your father’s political career. Better to nip it now, man, and not make the biggest mistake of your life by marrying a cheating whore.”
Patrick had listened.
“Look,” Oliver had said, “maybe I’m wrong, and if I am, I’ll be happy to be and see you marry the girl of your dreams. But I’ll make you a bet. If you’re right and she’s not cheating, I’ll give you the money for the Lambo we both love.” For weeks, they’d bonded over being car aficionados and Formula 1 hobbyists, and they had their eyes on a limited-edition Lamborghini.
Worth half a million dollars.
“If I’m right,” Oliver had told him, “you give me the money for it.”
It wasn’t chump change to Patrick, but his family could definitely afford a high-risk bet if he lost. His mom came from football royalty, and not because there was a quarterback in his family. His grandparents owned an entire NFL team.
Patrick had agreed to the bet, thinking I was still perfectly his, but he’d wanted clear, definitive proof of me cheating. Not a text message string that could be fabricated or a Photoshopped picture. He needed to know one hundred percent that I was every whorish thing Oliver painted me as.
Everett grimaced. “This’ll be an uphill climb for Oliver if he has to convince the mark. He’ll think he’s just trying to get the damn car. The indisputable proof has to come from them.” He pointed toward Rocky and me.
How much Patrick needed to actually see—that was the argument.
Everett spoke to Addison. “This shouldn’t be hard for them, hun. They’ve kissed plenty of times. None of us would be surprised if they’ve already had sex—”
“We haven’t,” Rocky growled through his teeth. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
Everett made a concerted effort not to glare back at his son.
“There are feelings there, Bethy,” Addison reasoned with my mom.
I interjected. “I wouldn’t go that far.” I whirled to my mom. “Mom.”
“You have kissed him during jobs, bug,” my mom said. “Would it be that bad to go just a little further?”
I froze. Would it be? Was I just making this unreasonably harder on everyone?
Rocky was grinding his jaw, a rough, angered hand scraping through his hair. Until he pushed away from the mantel. “What do you want us to do? Fuck each other on the job?”
No one said anything.
Addison and my mom exchanged a glance that I couldn’t decipher. They’d shared many of those over the years. Glimpses reserved for very best friends. For those who know the depth of you from the inside out.
“We want no room for doubt, Brayden. That’s it,” Addison told her son.
“It’s half a million dollars,” Everett said slowly, like the money would matter. “Your mother and I would do more for less. Hell, we’ve all done more for less.”
I felt like a toddler throwing a stupid tantrum. I knew my mom had been in her fair share of uncomfortable positions, and they weren’t asking me to be with a stranger. This was Rocky.
“I’ll do it,” I suddenly said. My stomach clenched, knowing I was agreeing to leapfrog over a line that Rocky and I never crossed.
He stared straight at me, breathing harder and harder.
“Brayden, please,” Addison whispered.
And finally, he said, “Okay.”
At the brownstone, I wasn’t as nervous. Back there, it felt like a blueprint. Less real and more imagined.
Here, seeing Rocky come toward the rose-petal-strewn bed where I stand—this is very real.
I almost wish he didn’t dump expensive champagne down the drain and on the bar counter. Could’ve used a tiny buzz to quiet the nerves, but we’re pretty good about keeping clear heads during jobs.
“Ready to pop my cherry?” I quip with less flirt and more bite. It’s the realest me, and the realest him stalks closer with a dark look in his eye.
I watch him pursue me with zero hesitance. Whatever disturbed him at the brownstone has been silenced, and he drinks in more than the softness of my thigh, which peeks from the sultry slit of my glittery silver dress. He consumes more than the diamond necklace dripping down my plunging neckline, more than my teasing breasts.
I intake shorter, quicker breaths. My heart accelerates at an adrenaline-charged rate.
I’m not bait to Rocky. I’m not a lifeless mannequin. I’m not cattle needing to be appraised and bartered. I’m not the hundreds of different faces I’ve worn.
I’m just Phoebe.
His black bow tie is already unraveled around the collar of his white button-down. Dark hair devilishly disheveled and his gaze fixed unwaveringly on me, he looks ready to devour the entire world with me inside it.
“Forget your cherry was popped years ago?” he retorts in a deep, husky breath. Nearing me with quiet footfalls. Closer, closer. “And not by me.”
Oxygen thins, and my collarbone juts out as I chase after breath. “Disappointed?” I sling back.
He’s only inches away, his cologne an intoxicating sandalwood and pine scent, and his gaze drops to my lips. “Devastated,” he says dryly, but despite his tone, the truth of that single word bleeds through his pinpointed eyes, driving a dagger straight through me.
I twist the blade. “You cry yourself to sleep every night?”
“Every. Single. Night.” His voice is a serrated breath in the quiet. He towers over me, staring down, our gazes practically nail-gunned to one another. “I wept over you. Over what I’d never do to you.” His fingers skate along the curve of my hip with a tortured slowness. No zipper to my dress; he reaches around to my lower back, where a few knotted strings cinch fabric and accentuate my shape. “How I’d never bend you over.”
My pulse quickens. I never break his molten gaze that verges on a glare. How a glare can be laced with sensual, desirous things is beyond my comprehension right now, but I feel myself searing an identical one into him.
“How I’d never slide my hard”—he loosens one string, his fingers brushing the bare flesh of my lower back—“long cock between your legs and fuck you senseless. How I’d never make you writhe and cry and moan.” His other hand nestles against my flushed neck. “And you. You would’ve loved every. Single. Second. Of me.”
Arousal gathers like an active volcano inside my body, and I sway against his grazing hands like toxic fumes cloud the room.
“Thrusting,” he says, untying a knot with one last pull, “so deep inside your wet... virgin pussy. You would’ve seen stars for endless fucking days.”
The cocktail dress slackens at my hips like a pillow sack. Once he glides the thin straps off my shoulders, the entire dress cascades in a silver pool at my heels.
My expression wields a strange amount of power over Rocky, possessing him more than my perked nipples and the bareness of my body. Even as his fingers slip in the lacy band of my white thong, he’s glued to my eyes and my lips.
My pulse hurries in a lovesick pace, but I tilt my chin up to meet the depth of his gaze. “You wanted to be the first inside me so badly,” I taunt, a headiness still swirling between us.
“So badly,” he parrots, his fingers climbing up my neck. “Tell me, Phoebe. When I wasn’t the first to fuck you, how long did you cry over me?”
I’m barely breathing. “Every. Single. Night.” I try to deadpan, but the words are caught in a tangled moan.
Rocky clasps the back of my skull, and he kisses the ever-loving fuck out of me—a desperate, raw kiss that explodes me to his chest with force.
I gasp as smoldering pleasure surges, as the blistering seconds burn into timeless moments. I rip through the buttons of his white shirt, and he tears it off his arms, tossing it aside. Bare chested, he unbuckles his belt, and I kick off my heels.
He presses his forehead to mine and breathes huskily, “You want this tonight?”
I want you.
“I want it.” This is the greatest confirmation. He wastes no time cupping the backs of my thighs and hoisting me around his waist. My heart is beating out of my rib cage. I claw at his hair, our kisses ravenous and edged with poison. Being with Rocky feels lethal—like it could end me at any moment—and yet, I loathe the very idea of stopping.
He hurls me on the bed, and I bounce on top of the fluffy hotel comforter, rose petals smashed under my back. Our gazes are fucking before our bodies even touch. We forgo slipping beneath the cover and sheets, and as he crawls over my body, he tears my lacy thong down my thighs and legs.
This is happening.
I hate how good he makes me feel. I hate how much I truly love every. Single. Second. Of him.
Because this will end soon. Don’t look at the clock. It’s dumb not to check the time. We’re on a job, but I find myself avoiding the digital clock on the nightstand like it’s a bomb ticking down.
Rocky places a kiss on my kneecap before rising back to my lips. We’re tangled in each other, and sweat already glistens on his chest and beads up on my thighs. He takes a second to peel off his black boxer briefs, and when he falls back down—hands rooted on either side of me—the sheer heat of his hardness rubbing against me is enough to prick all my nerves.
I pulsate, aching for him, and I reach up the same time he bows down—kissing again. The kissing part is safe. It’s what we’ve always done. Toy and tease and eke out an unbearable tension, and that tension stretches tenfold tonight.
He clutches my thigh and spreads me wider around his waist. Oh God. A shaky cry scrapes against my throat. “Rocky.” It sounds like a warning.
He pauses, his chest inflating and deflating with rapid, hot breath. I feel him searching me. “You want this?” he asks again.
Yes. I hang on to the back of his neck, panting. “I...” Don’t look at the clock.
It’ll all end tonight.
It’ll end soon.
“Phoebe.” He clasps my cheek with equal parts care and urgency. “Do you want to have sex with me?”
Every artery and blood cell in me is screaming, Yes! “Keep going,” I breathe out.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes,” I snap back and arch up to kiss him.
Rocky resists at first, but he descends back into the deadly vapors of our arousal. Lip-locked. His tongue slides against mine, dizzying me again, and I could lose myself to this moment. To him and time. So terribly, I want to.
We’re on a job.
It beats painfully at my heart and mind.
His muscles flex as he grinds forward and cups the back of my head. Not entering me yet, but the pleasure of being this close to Rocky comes with an anguished strain that won’t release.
He knocks his knee against my other leg, stretching me even wider, and I’m opened for him.
It’ll be disrupted. Patrick will come in midway. It’ll all fucking end.
That’s what’s supposed to happen. What has to happen. What I agreed to.
An emotional ball of pain wells, and I try to ignore the pit in my ribs. Most everything in my life has been temporary, but Rocky never has been. Tonight, he will be.
It hurts.
It hurts.
Why does it hurt?
I clench his hair with both hands, my knees locking and other joints rusting beneath him.
He goes eerily still, likely sensing the rigidity in my body. His brows are knitted together, face twisting through tormented, labored sentiments while he sweeps me. “I can’t,” he says in a rough, choked breath.
Our gazes latch, and there is so much untouched brewing under the surface.
I want this. But not like this.
I know that, too.
My eyes sear, hurt and relief jumbled together. “This was too far,” I murmur. Sex might just ruin everything between us. Hooking up on jobs is already messing with me. “I don’t want to keep doing this.” I shove his chest, but Rocky is already leaning off me.
With a racing pulse, I grab a soft feather-and-down pillow and hug it upright against my naked frame. Rocky is kneeling, and I avert my eyes from his erection. He checks the time on the digital clock near the bed.
Less than ten minutes and Patrick will be here. We don’t have the luxury of cracking open a bottle of wine like we’re jilted lovers stuck in a room together—where we can “talk it out” for an hour and dig through the mess we just created.
My “fiancé” is still supposed to catch us in the act.
Yay us.
But Rocky isn’t hustling to reconstruct our decaying plan. He climbs unhurriedly off the bed, his muscles constricted in harsher bands. “Our parents will keep using us, Phoebe.” He pushes his fingers through his hair and grabs his boxer briefs off the floor. “If we ever have sex, they’ll use that as a reason to put us in more positions we don’t want to be in. You know that, right?”
I’m not sure how much of that is true, but I do know how much I hate this feeling. “We should never have sex,” I realize. “Maybe we should never even date.”
Rocky is rigid, motionless. “We have to date for jobs.”
My cheeks roast, and I bristle. “Okay, so when we’re not on a job.” Not that we’ve ever dated off a job before. “I just meant that dating or being in a real relationship shouldn’t be a future possibility. It should be... banned. Off-limits.”
He lets that sink in, looking deeper into me. “You want to agree to it?” he asks, like he needs these three commandments written in stone:
Phoebe and Rocky Shall Never, Ever Have Sex.
Phoebe and Rocky Shall Never, Ever Date Outside of Cons.
Phoebe and Rocky Shall Never, Ever Honestly Be Together.
I don’t want to pine after him. I don’t want to think about him when I’m with other men. I just want to know that the door is closed for good.
“Yeah,” I say firmly. “I do.” I extend my hand, and Rocky steps over to the bed, covering himself with his balled-up underwear, and he shakes on it. He holds on to my palm for too long, and the worst part, this isn’t over.
We have to pull the rope.
Everything is worse, when I thought it’d be better with the declaration, the agreement, and our admission. The tension doesn’t dissolve—it wrings painfully tight.
I’m bare underneath the sheets, lying as stiff as a prickly cactus, and Rocky has left for the bathroom.
“You’re cutting it close!” I shout at him. We have three minutes. How the hell am I supposed to make fake sweet love with him now?
A knife slices through my lungs with each inhale.
Rocky returns to the room as naked as he left. He chucks his crumpled boxer briefs near the bed, and then he throws a filled condom on the ground. Oh fuck. I widen my eyes at him, but he’s not looking at me. A towel is in his hand, a green silk robe... and a knife.
What’s he doing? I try to be polite and avoid glimpses of his cock. It feels wrong to even peek now.
Rocky tosses me the robe, and I slip my arms mechanically through the silky fabric. He wrenches the comforter and sheets off me. Cold bites my exposed flesh, and he piles the bedding in a twisted heap on the floor.
We’re barely looking at each other at this point. And when we do, his jaw tightens and my body flexes strangely. And it hits me.
I think we just broke up in the middle of a con. Not that we were ever together in any traditional sense, but we were something. The possibility of what we could be always quietly simmered between us, and now it’s festering painfully.
He’s back to kneeling on the bed. With the knife, he pricks his finger.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“We’re giving that bastard what he’s afraid of.” Blood bubbles on his fingertip, and he stains the hand towel with crimson droplets. “A deflowered virgin.”
“Smart.” I actually like this plan, but I’m unsure if it’ll work.
He sucks his finger and shuts the knife into the end table drawer. “What position are you thinking?”
Another pit forms in my stomach. We never talked about missionary or doggy style or any single position beforehand because we planned on the sex being natural.
Now we’re switching from an exhilarating manual transmission to dull automatic, and I just want this over with.
“Probably a position where he can see my face,” I say.
“Lie on your back with your head at the foot of the bed.”
This is a good option. I can still wear the robe and just have the fabric be a tantalizing tease, slipping slightly off my breasts. But I won’t be flashing the mark, and I wonder if Rocky thought about this, too.
Instead of Patrick catching us in the act, we talk it through quickly and agree for him to catch us right as we finish.
With my head careening over the edge of the bed, Rocky grips my hips, but he wads the bloodied hand towel near my center. His cock isn’t touching me, and I’m not inspecting how hard he is. If we just finished coming together, then it wouldn’t matter anyway.
Once our phone pings, we know Oliver is in the hallway. He had his “friend” from concierge (aka Everett) give him the keycard to our hotel suite.
I act like I’m coming loudly, and Rocky fakes a heavy grunt.
“Yes, baby!” I cry out. “Oh my God, baby, that was so good. Fuck, yes.”
“Yeah, you like that, Dalilah?” Rocky pants but stares at the entryway. “I knew you would, honey.”
The door flies open. My head upside down, I see Patrick roll to a horrified stop. “Dalilah?” He’s sheet white.
“Oh my God.” I tighten the robe around my naked frame, the strand of diamonds like a cold drip of water between my breasts.
“Get the fuck out of our room!” Rocky shouts at Patrick. “How the hell did you even get in here?!”
The mark is slack-jawed, suffocating on his own shock. His wide eyes ping to the cum-filled condom, the rumpled bedding on the ground, the romantic rose petals, my discarded lacy thong, and then back to me, where my legs are still spread around Rocky.
I hide my face, feigning shame.
Rocky takes a heavy, fake post-sex breath and skates a hand through his damp hair, acting as though he’s piecing together this mystery, too. “Honey?” He speaks gently to me. “Do you know this dweeb?”
I drop my hands. “I, uh...”
Rocky pulls the bloodied rag out from between my legs, and Patrick loses it. “No, no, nonono,” he repeats with a frantic shake of his head. “This isn’t happening.”
I spring off the bed. “Patrick, Patrick.” I go to him, robe secured with three knots around my body. “I’m so sorry.” I try to sound distraught.
Rocky is leisurely collecting his boxer briefs and putting them on, the elastic at his hips, but when I risk another glance, I see so much strictness straining his muscles.
Patrick threads his fingers on his head, pacing back and forth near a black-and-white framed photograph of Times Square.
As I come closer, I see Oliver skulk farther into the entryway, observing his fake friend closely. Thank you for not coming all the way inside this room, Oliver.
Patrick restarts his hysterical headshake. “No, no.”
“Patrick.” I reach out to him. “I’m so—”
He slaps me right across the face, so hard that I stumble backward, and the sting is instant.
“HEY!” Rocky yells and shoots forward the same time Oliver does.
I blink, and Rocky already has Patrick by the collar. There is no pause in him. He slams a brutal fist into the mark’s cheekbone. The anguished cry that ejects out of Patrick is of a man who has never been physically harmed before. Yet he was so fucking quick to slap me.
I holster a glare. I’m supposed to be sad, upset. I blink a few more times, my emotions cycling through a washing machine.
“You motherfucker,” Rocky sneers through his teeth, about to lay another fist in him.
“Stop!” Patrick cries and crumples against the wall with his hands raised. “Stop! brIAN!” He’s calling for Oliver, and my brother is forced to squat down to this asshole and be his saving grace.
“Back off, man,” Oliver says to Rocky in a voice that sounds unnaturally tight for my brother.
I taste the iron of blood in my mouth. My lip throbs.
Rocky’s fury bleeds into the hotel suite. He could so easily beat Patrick to a pulp, but if the mark feels justified in going to the cops and trying to press assault charges, it could jeopardize all of our lives.
A punch for a slap needs to be the cutoff.
Rocky knows this, and he wields more restraint than even I understand. It’s as though he can rewind a volcanic eruption, gathering magma and withstanding the burn just to force the destruction down.
Slowly, Rocky begins to release his grip off the mark, and he retrieves his slacks, belt, and white button-down from the floor. “Come here, honey.” He gestures to me, and I find it hard to move.
Why...?
I blink a few more times, vaulting between nausea and an emptiness. Rocky approaches me fast, and he holds my face with tenderness and inspects my lip. It must be split.
“You okay?” he whispers so quietly.
I try to nod.
I just want this awful job to finally end.
“Go get dressed,” he murmurs.
Right. I power through the night. While I get clothed in record time in the bathroom, I tune out the verbal lashing between Rocky and Patrick.
I come out and Rocky clasps my hand. I can’t tell who’s gripping tighter, me or him.
“You’re good, Patrick. I have you,” Oliver says and tries to calm him down.
Patrick watches in horror and revulsion as I choose to leave with my lover who “deflowered” me over him.
The rope has been pulled, and Oliver is tasked with closing off the final bits of the con.
Rocky and I are out of there. We don’t talk. A silent subway ride later where we remain holding hands, we climb into a parked Chevy in the Bronx, and we let go.
Nova is behind the wheel. He’s driving us to Staten Island, where we’ll meet up with Hailey. Finally. While I lie across the backseat, Patrick eventually texts me horrifying messages about how I’m meant for eternal damnation, and he calls off the wedding.
Oliver relays via phone call that a grateful Patrick agreed to make good on losing the bet. According to Patrick, Oliver just saved him from a lifetime of misery and deceit. He’ll wire his friend the money. He’s sending half tonight, half tomorrow.
I fall into a light sleep and only wake to Rocky and Nova yelling.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rocky nearly shouts. “No idea.”
“It’s always the same with you,” Nova retorts with a similar heat. “You act like he’s Satan, when he’s nothing even close.”
Rocky growls, “Oh, he’s got you fucking fooled, man. You’re playing right into his bullshit.”
Nova grits through his teeth, “God, I wish I had your father. Don’t you get it?! He treats your mom with nothing but respect. He adores her. Like she’s not someone to abuse at the end of a fucking night. He’s never laid a hand on you or your brother or your sister. He’d drop anything to be there for his kids, and you don’t even see it. You don’t even know the good that you have when it’s right in front of you.”
The car goes silent.
I think they’ll leave the fight there.
Until Rocky speaks.
“Take him, Winchester. He’s all yours.”