God, I’d give anything to be there for them now.

My elbows on my knees, I lace my fingers behind my neck. I breathe deep past the nausea the rolls in my stomach. Emotion clogs my throat. My eyes burn.

I was trying to protect them. How did things get so fucked up? The heavy weight of foreboding settles on my shoulders.

Something tells me this is just the beginning.

* * *

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’d count the days by how many meals I’ve eaten. But I can’t stomach food. Or maybe by how many nights I’ve slept. But as tired as I am, sleep never comes.

Staring at the gray walls of my cell, time doesn’t move. Voices murmur and echo from nearby cells, reminding me that I’m not alone. But I am. Left with nothing but my anger and remorse.

And confusion. I’ve been charged for felony assault for what I did to Stew. But no mention of the choking. I rub my eyes until they hurt. Why didn’t she tell them what I did to her?

I gave the investigators my story in triplicate, at least, all that I could remember. I didn’t complain when I had to repeat myself over and over to every new face that asked. I gave blood, pissed in a cup, and waited. Waited for answers.

Then they came.

Positive.

Deca-Durabolin and Winstrol V. Illegal anabolic steroids.

That fucking doctor drugged me. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. Some stupid jock trying to blame someone else for my fuck up. Even my lawyer can’t hide his pity.

I know the truth. I’d never willingly take steroids. I have too much respect for the sport. I’ve worked way too damn hard to get where I am to fuck it up by juicing. But I have no proof. And unless Doc Z rolls in flappin’ his gums, a simple denial on his part will be the loaded chamber in this game of Russian roulette with my career.

“Daniels, you’ve got a visitor.” The guard from outside my cell hollers just before the buzz of my cell door unlocks.

I drag my heavy body from the cot and move to the opening, waiting for him to escort me to the visitor’s room.

Nervous energy flutters as hope filters through my depression. Could it be Layla? No, she probably wants nothing to do with me. If she’s smart, she’ll be halfway across the country to get the hell away.

The guard stops at a door, and we wait until we’re buzzed in. He walks me down a series of cubby-like desks with phones attached to the dividers, with glass separating the prisoner from the visitor.

“You’re in number seven.” He motions down the row and leaves me to it.

My heart pounds in my chest as I move down. Five, six. I stop and suck in a deep breath. If it’s her… oh, God, I hope it’s her.

One final step and I’m face to face with…no fucking way. “General?”

His expression is stony, lips pressed in a tight line, as he takes me in. I drop into the seat and grab the phone, pressing it to my ear and avoiding his eyes. He makes me wait before he picks up the phone on his side.

“Son. Somehow, I knew we’d be here one day. Orange is your color. Much more appropriate than the dress blues of a Marine.”

Of course he’d come to rub it in. Remind me of what a disappointment I am. But I’ve lost too much, and his words have no sting. I lift my eyes to his. “What do you want, Dad?”

He barks out laughter with no humor. “What do I want? I want my son to stop acting like a fucking child. I want you to honor your family—”

“Honor my family? What the fuck do you know about family?”

He flinches so slightly it’s barely noticeable. “I suppose this is where you blame me for your screw ups. Getting kicked out of the Marines, ending up in jail.” He shakes his head, disgust coloring his expression. “You need to take responsibility for what you’ve—”

“You first.” I grind my teeth, biting back the words that fight to be spoken.

“Me? What the hell did I ever do to you, other than try to get you to be a productive member of society?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Fury bubbles behind my sternum. “You took away everything. My mom, my music—”

“No, I protected you from the things that made you weak. Your mother coddled you, and that music…” He shook his head. “No man worth his salt plays the piano.”

I can’t believe it. After twelve years, he hasn’t changed. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll never see me for the man I’ve become, or the things I’ve achieved. I’ll always represent your biggest failure. You couldn’t turn me into a clone that would follow you around like a puppy, mimicking your every move, eventually becoming the weak, controlling asshole that you are.”

“I’m weak? You’re taking steroids, and you have the nerve to call me weak? I knew you were irresponsible and immature, but a cheater?” His eyes travel from my bright orange shirt to my hair. “I can hardly stand to look at you.”

I shrug. He’s not the only one. I can hardly stand to look at myself. It’s no use telling him that I’d never do steroids. I’d be wasting my time explaining that I think the UFL doctor poisoned me. Shit, it sounds stupid in my head. Saying it will only give him more ammo in his character assault.

“I’m done. Good luck with your life, Blake. I give up.” He slams the phone into its cradle, and the looming presence from the other side of the glass moves away.

“You gave up on me a long time ago,” I whisper.

Hanging up, I push from my seat.

“One more visitor.” My escort hollers down from his position at the door. “Take a seat.”

Another visitor? I don’t want to see anyone else, but I drop back down and wait. Movement on the other side of the glass brings my eyes to a pair that matches my own.

Holy shit. I rip the phone from the cradle and press it to my ear. My brother, Braeden, sits and raises the phone to his ear.

“Brae, man. Hey.”

His hair is darker than mine and cropped in a military high-and-tight. And he’s huge. Twice the size he was when I saw him last. Looks like he’s been hitting the gym hard. I guess he found a way to channel the caged feeling that accompanies being the son of Duke Daniels.

“Hey, bro,” he says, his smile genuine, but concern in his eyes. “They treating you okay in here?”

“Yeah. How are you?” For the first time in I don’t know how long, the tingle of a smile touches my lips.

“I’d be better if we were sitting at a bar having a beer and not separated by glass.”

Smile erased, I nod. “Sorry you have to see me like this. I fucked up.”

“That’s not the story I heard.”

“No? Well, you need better information.”

“Talked to Jonah and Raven. They told me everything.”

That’s about as accurate as he could get. “Oh, okay.”

“I just have one question.” He leans in on one elbow, putting his face close to glass. “Please tell me you didn’t fuck a stripper on Valentine’s Day when your girl was being held by her ex.” His green eyes dance with humor, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“That’s the shit you want to ask me? Really?” Damn, I miss my little bro. “No. I didn’t. It took me about eight seconds of being in a dark room alone with her to realize I was fucking everything up.”

“I knew it. Jonah owes me a hundred bucks.”

It’s nice to know someone still believes in me.

We chat for a while, small talk that revolves around him and doesn’t touch my jacked-up situation. The guard calls down that our time’s up.

“I better go.” I tilt my head toward the guard. “Captain Powertrip gets pissed if I don’t jump every time he calls.”

“Sounds good.”

“You leaving town soon or…” I don’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s going to stay for a week just so he can visit his big brother in jail.

“Yeah, I’ll be here for a few days.”

“Oh, really? So I’ll—”

“See you tonight.”

“What?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” He scratches his head and takes an exaggerated look around. “I guess I did.” His lips curl into a full smile. “Jonah posted bail.”

My jaw goes slack. Bail was set at fifty thousand dollars.

He taps the glass between us. “Hang in there, bro. I’ll see ya later.”

Thirty-one

Blake

It’s after nine at night when I’m finally released. After a process that included a meeting with my lawyer and a series of signatures, I’m walking out of the jail’s release wing and into a dark parking lot. A familiar black pickup truck is parked and idling.

I should be overjoyed to see Jonah’s truck, but disappointment smothers the good feelings.

Holding on to the hope that I’d walk out and see Layla’s Bronco was a mistake. And daydreaming that she and Axelle would run to me so that I could crush them in my arms wasn’t smart.

With a firm shake of my head to rid it of the hopeful hallucinations, my empty chest echoes with what could’ve been. I mourn the loss of the dream.

“How’s life on the inside?” Jonah asks through the open truck window.

I shrug, swing open the door, and climb in. “Sucks.” But something tells me it’s a whole hell of a lot better than the shit I’m going to face on the outside.

He throws the truck in drive and maneuvers it out of the small lot. Silence fills the cab as if he’s waiting for me to ask the question and allowing me to take my time to do so.

I clear my throat, hoping to hide the emotion that’s riding so close to the surface. “How are they?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know. Last I heard? Not too good.”

My gaze slides to the scenery flying past my window. “Fuck. They must hate me.”