I’d never been to The Red Hill Tavern before, mainly because I couldn’t afford it, but even if I could, who had time to book a place three months in advance? Especially seeing as health complications constantly put a damper on my plans. I never knew when I had to shut the door and hide away from the world or sit on the bed with a giant vest for hours at a time, waiting for my lungs to play nice with the rest of my organs.

The Red Hill Tavern was lovely. I was happy we went there. The food was great, but the company? That was the real treat.

Yellow lights were spinning from teardrop chandeliers, old oak and classic red-and-white checked tablecloths and real, well-used candles shone everywhere.

I thought about the happiness Dean held in the palm of his hand. The happiness that he had offered me so generously, but taking it was dangerous, because it was placing him behind the wheel of the vehicle that was called my life.

He seemed like a reckless driver. Then again, ever since we started this, he had been nothing but strong and resilient. A rock I leaned on when things at home crumbled.

Who would have thought? Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole, Manwhore Galore.

“So, do you work with a lot of millionaires?” Elle purred, her lips shiny with an extra coat of lipstick and olive oil from the delicious food we wolfed down.

“Sweetheart,” he snickered, taking a bite of his filet mignon, “I only work with billionaires.”

“Think you can hook me up with one?”

“Are you sure? They normally don’t look like their bank accounts feel.”

“They have sons, though, right?” Elle asked.

“They do.” Dean grinned. “I like the way you think.”

Just then, his phone buzzed.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” He frowned at his phone and stood up, leaving us to admire his broad back and magic ass in his charcoal, tailor-made suit. Elle clapped her hands twice when he got out of earshot, heading toward the door leading outside. She grabbed me by the shoulders.

“This man, Rosie!” she exclaimed. “Tell me he is terrible in bed so I can keep my loyalty as a friend to you.”

Perfect didn’t even begin to describe what he was between the sheets, but I definitely needed a repeat to remind myself why I was putting my heart on the line like this, knowing someone like him would never settle for someone like me long-term.

“Make sure Darren knows before you move forward,” Mama said to me when I broke the news about us moving in together. “You don’t want him to feel like he’s been tricked by a woman who can’t have children.”

“Dude.” I shook my head, trying to silence Mama’s words. “Don’t even go there. They don’t make them like this anymore.”

“Continue at this rate, and I bet you any money that you will be a victim of a passion crime.” Elle stabbed a fork into her ravioli and brought it to her open mouth. “Someone would kill you. Another jealous bitch, probably. Maybe the PA? I mean, no woman should be the proud owner of a man like Dean.”

“He is not a piece of property.” I rolled my eyes, munching on a breadstick.

“No. He is a hot commodity, though.” Elle pinched her lips before we both doubled over laughing. She asked how Trent was doing—she was disappointed she didn’t get to meet him before the wedding—but then Dean came back to the table. He no longer looked playful, fun, and laid-back. Instead, he looked like he had seen a ghost. Tucking his phone into his back pocket, he said, “Took care of the check. Are you ready to leave?”

I didn’t have to be that close to him to know that he’d been drinking. The mere scent of pure alcohol on his breath gave it away. It bit at my nostrils with freshness reserved for a hardcore spirit. I wanted to bite his head off, but couldn’t do it in front of Elle, and perhaps even at all. He looked troubled in a way that made me physically uncomfortable.

Elle and I exchanged confused looks, our half-eaten dishes still sitting at the table, waiting to be enjoyed. My friend opened her mouth, and I had a feeling that she was going to ask if we could stay for dessert. That was a definite no. He needed to get out of there, and I wanted to save him the explanation.

“Yeah, I’m feeling pretty tired, and it’s getting chilly.” It wasn’t getting chilly, but Elle, and everyone else around me, were always concerned that I would catch a cold. “Let me make a quick bathroom stop beforehand. My bladder doesn’t want to be friends with the house wine.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were in a taxi on our way back home. Dean hailed a cab for Elle first—and paid for it—and again, I was met with her angry eyes, the ones that demanded I chain him to a basement and convince him to marry me.

When we were in the taxi, I turned to Dean to ask him what happened.

One look at his face and I realized it was a bad idea.

“Do you want to hang out?” I inquired instead. “It’s still early.”

“That depends. Will you give me shit for drinking? Because I’m going to. A lot.”

I thought about it for a second. He hadn’t been drinking all week when we were together—including at the wedding and in Vegas, two events that practically called for it. If I’d told him I didn’t want to stay, he’d take it the wrong way. Like I only wanted him under my terms and conditions. Which couldn’t be further from the truth. The truth was, I’d take him any way I could get him, and it was important for me to be there for him to make my point.

“No,” I said. “You can drink.”

“Then yes, stay. I need you tonight.”

And I had needed him the whole week before.

He was there for me.

I was there for him.

One thing was for sure—when one of us fell, the other followed down, no questions asked.

Five fingers of brandy, and Dean didn’t even allow the expensive drink to tickle his taste buds before he tossed his head back and finished the snifter in one gulp. He leaned a hip against the wet bar and tugged at his hair, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Manhattan. This city was powerful. So was he. Problem was, for the first time since we met—since we were teenagers, actually—I didn’t see him for the big, successful man that he was. I saw a lost boy, and that boy? I wasn’t sure many people could get to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” My fingers danced on his furniture as I walked toward him, memorizing every curve of dark wood and fabric of the plush seats. This girl, the nagging one who kept on asking what’s wrong—she wasn’t me. But caring for Dean was me. And I had a feeling his sudden change had something to do with this Nina woman. The mysterious phone calls had purpose, that much I was sure of, but they were an open wound. The last thing I wanted to do was to cut it deeper and watch him bleed.

Truths could be uncomfortable. That was why people often chased them. More often than not, they weren’t for all to see. And that was why Dean didn’t know why I couldn’t become a nurse. Why he had no idea I couldn’t have any children.

My boyfriend shook his head. With no trace of emotion in his voice, he ordered, “C’mere.”

I ambled the distance to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, staring him dead in the eye. There was disobedience in my pupils. He needed a diversion from whatever bothered him enough to drive him crazy and make him drink and smoke himself to death.

Dean had a problem. He knew it. I knew it.

He had a problem, and this problem pushed him straight into the arms of his vices. He physically needed the alcohol and the weed to forget whatever it was that bothered him. I wanted to ask—was desperate to dig deeper into the dark rooms of his soul and pull out secret after secret, cleaning it from the cluttered mess—but couldn’t. It killed me, but I had to be there for him, any way he’d have me.

“You’re gorgeous,” he gruffed, trailing a finger over my jawline with the hand that wasn’t holding his brandy.

“You’re drunk,” I deadpanned, laughing nervously.

“True.” His predatory eyes played with my body in a way no other man could with their hands. “And still, you were gorgeous when I was sober, and you’ll still be gorgeous when I nurse a fucking hangover from hell tomorrow morning.” His hands slid down to my waist, and he grabbed me with force, spinning and placing me on his bar. My lower back pressed against an endless number of luxurious bottles, and the surface underneath me slipped chill into my bones, even through my long, torn, black skinny jeans.

His hand slid to the buttons on my jeans, and he was quick to pull them down until they hit the floor. My Sex Pistols yellow T-shirt was thrown onto the gray settee in less than a second, my flip-flops nowhere to be found. Dean then flattened me against the bar with his palm on my chest, and when the bottles dug into my back, he wiped them all off of the surface with his arm, a dozen of them falling to the floor in unison of colors, sound, and light.

“Jesus!” I gasped, the noise of shattered glass ringing in the room like an alarm. Dean grabbed the bottle of brandy that sat next to him and took another swig before pouring some into my navel and sucking on it, his warm lips on my skin making my lower stomach explode with nerves and need.

“I’m not a bad person,” he slurred, seemingly out of nowhere and to no one in particular. His level of drunkenness had me genuinely worried, but even though Dean was still a riddle, one thing was stark clear.

He didn’t want to be nursed or contained. He wanted to go unhinged.

His demons came out to play, and tonight, I was going to be their victim. I lay there at his altar, waiting to be punished for something I hadn’t done. His pain was going to be distributed between us.

And I was glad to take some of it away, even if it was just for one night.

“No. You’re the best person,” I mumbled as he dropped to his knees and tore the underwear from my skin. Red, searing marks brushed my thighs like welts. He flung the balled fabric behind his shoulder and dove down, tasting what was between my legs like it was his source of life, grinding his teeth against my sore hot spot, making me go crazy. He was a hungry zombie, feasting on his pound of flesh, and I stood no chance against his darkness.