One of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made was whether to push him away or try to help him and at the same time save me in a sense. I close my eyes momentarily, Depeche Mode’s lyrics to “Halo” running through my mind: You wear guilt like shackles on your feet, like a halo in reverse. The words serve as a reminder that the one constant in my life, besides music, has been guilt.

And then I look at my other constant, Vince and his unwavering friendship. “Man, I’m doing the best I can.” I blow out a breath, staring at my hands for a beat, knowing I’m going to say the words and Vince isn’t going to believe them but I need to say them anyway. “I told him he has to set something up and follow through by next month.”

Vince just meets my eyes with a disbelieving nod. “Whatever you say, Play.”

“Fuck, I told him if he didn’t, I’m going to Ben and telling him what happened that night….” My words drift off as I realize what I just said. The combination of Quin and the fight with Hunt and the alcohol and … just fucking everything had scattered my thoughts and it took its toll on me in the form of a semiconfession.

Vince’s eyes flash over to mine, the I fucking knew it written all over his face, but he doesn’t say a word. He just twists his lips in thought and takes a deep breath as he digests the admission that he already knew. I know he wants to chastise me, get in my face over what he deems is my stupidity, but he knows me so well, knows that this was a slip I never intended to make, understands that I’ll shut down and take the fuck off for a while so that I don’t have to deal with everything, so he bites back the bitterness on his tongue.

Little does he know at this juncture I’ve fucked myself to the point that if I do change my story, there will be repercussions—perjury—so I just keep my mouth shut. The giant wave of guilt crashing into my conscience once again.

“I promise man, I’m not going to let his shit affect me or the group.”

Vince sighs and the room falls quiet for a moment, only the second-hand click of the clock hanging on the wall breaking through the silence. “You don’t go back on promises and we believed you when you told us that Hunter’s bullshit won’t come into our house again. I don’t know how you’re going to do that man but we believe you will.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, lying back down and bending my arm over my eyes, wanting to shut this all out. Wanting to shrug out of the responsibility that fell on me at much too early an age to take care of my mother and Hunter.

It all flashes in my memory like it was yesterday—his voice, his words, the images. My dad’s grown-up rant to my nine-year-old ears. How love makes the strongest person weak, can ruin them, make them lose their way. I remember my confusion, not understanding what he meant, why tears were streaming down his face as he told me over and over that love would make me weak.

That he was weak.

I can still hear my voice asking him how love can make you weak when Mommy loves him and he wasn’t weak. The tears came harder then from him and me as he knelt down in front of me and looked me in the eyes, made me swear to take care of them because I was the strongest of all. He went on to make me promise that no matter what, I’d do all I could to protect them because weak people made stupid mistakes and only brave men—me—could try to help them.

And I remember how the nine-year-old me was so proud that my dad had called me a man that I nodded, I agreed with everything I had, I promised faithfully because I had no idea what would happen next.

So I swore to protect my own blood at all costs and if I didn’t, I would be weak too. My only choice would be the same as his. He rambled on, scaring me with his words, his sudden anger that turned back to tears, shaking me by the shoulders to reinforce them. I kept glancing at the door, wondering when Mom and Hunter were going to come home because I didn’t know what to do, how to calm him. All I wanted when I came downstairs was my Transformers and yet I was scared to move and go get them from where they sat on the fireplace.

I remember glancing at the hearth and then back to him just in time to see him load the bullet in the gun I was never supposed to touch. The taste of the fear was like acid in my mouth and yet I couldn’t swallow. He looked me in the eye and told me that if I was weak, if I let him down by not being strong and taking care of them, then I would have to do what a weak man does. And then he put the tip under his chin as I whimpered and cowered. He yelled at me to stand up, to show him how strong I was by watching because if I didn’t, I’d be just as weak as he was and earn the same fate.

I stood tall, so afraid to let him down despite the tears sliding down my cheeks and the taste of vomit in my mouth from fear, and looked him in the eyes, and said the words, I promise, Daddy.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Vince calling my name shakes me from the memories that have scarred me like a brand, deep and irreversible. The Jack and Coke no longer sits well in my stomach and yet I’m sure as fuck going to have another to quiet the shit in my head.

“Yeah, what?” I ask as he eyes me, trying to determine whether I’m okay. I just shake my head at him to drop it as I scrub my hand over my face to try to rub away the memory that’s etched in permanent ink.

“I’m gonna be honest, man. You’re toeing that fine line with everything—Hunt, Quin, the other shit,” he implies without acknowledging. “The sucky thing about lines though is once you step over the edge, you can’t always find your way back.”

I stare at him, unsure which of those lines he’s talking about specifically but I don’t even want to venture a guess because I’m just glad it drags my thoughts from my past. “Maybe I don’t want to find my way back.”

“You talking about Trixie now?” He chuckles.

I’m not talking about anything in particular, just that unsettled feeling in regard to everything tumbling out of control around me … everything except for our music. My one and only constant through life. And I don’t really want to sit here and talk about this shit with myself let alone Vince so I hold on to the comment and use it as an out.

“I would definitely toe any line with her especially if I can use it to tie her to the headboard and have some fun.” The smile that graces my lips is genuine in what feels like the first time since the moment Quin left the house.

“You’re a sick fuck but I love the way you think.”

I laugh with him. “Living the dream, man.”

He laughs harder. “You’re going to be living in a tattoo shop pretty soon if you don’t set things right with little Miss Q.”

“Things are fine,” I correct him even though I know I was an asshole to her. Fuck. What I’d give to have her here right now since my anger has been thoroughly taken out on Giz’s drums. “I’ll fix it,” I say, and then realize I didn’t tell him anything about how the two of us left things. I shift to sit up and stare at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed so that I don’t even say a word and yet he knows what I’m thinking.

“Yep. I spied,” he confesses with a smirk. “Gotta know where I stand so I know when I’ll be needed to step in. Dude, being a third wheel never sounded so fucking appealing. I still think she’s going to grab you by the balls and add a little twist when telling you to fuck off after how you handled her tonight, but I’ll gladly take the extra ring around my tattooed heart because she’s hot.”

“That she is.” I blow out a breath and angle my head back against the cushion, thinking how I’m not too thrilled with the terms of this bet anymore. I’m not a possessive guy but fuck if I want Vinny in on this one. Then again, I’m not getting a tattoo of a heart like a pussy either.

Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. Shit, I’d much rather just be between her thighs.

But Vince might just be right. I might have screwed the pooch here in how I left things tonight. Talk about a hard row to hoe, kiss her like I want to fuck her and then shove her out the door without so much as a hug. Stellar, Play. Frickin’ stellar.

The sad fact is I’m being protective of her as if I’m looking for something more than some fun between the sheets with a girl who readily admits that she enjoys sex. But I’m not. I don’t have time for that in my life right now, and definitely don’t want to invite the crazy in that comes with the steady woman territory. Jealousy over groupies, inability to handle lonely nights while I’m on the road, and the constant underlying feeling that they’re with me for the wrong reasons. I have enough crazy already to last a lifetime.

Besides, something more means love. Love means weak. Weak means I’ve failed.

No, I most definitely am in this for the challenge, wanting to prove I can bed her as well as get a kick out of fucking with Vince.

Now I have to figure out how to do that since I just proved to her she was right in assuming I was the player she kept telling me I was. But I’m not worried. She hated me at first sight and came around, so it can’t be that much harder to get her into bed.

Now, if I only had her phone number.

“I see you figuring your angles on how to fix this over there Hawky-boy … but it’s going to take a whole lot more than you think. A woman scorned is a whole different animal than a groupie….”

I laugh. “Yeah, they leave bite marks.”

“Hey, a little pain never hurt anybody,” he muses with a slow nod of his head and a tip of his bottle back up.

My phone breaks through our comfortable laughter. Vince looks down at my phone sitting on the soundboard next to him. “Westbrook,” he says, holding the phone out to me.