“She cheated on Nick. What does that deserve?” I spit out.
“Xander, I can tell you this. She never cheated. She and Nick broke up right after he went on the road. She was seeing Dylan Wolf on and off for a while when you were conceived, but he died before he ever knew she was pregnant.”
Anger washes over me and I know I should just shut my mouth. My hand flies up in the air without conscious thought. “Bartender, another,” I yell. I don’t want to hear another word because already the use of the word conceived makes me want to puke right here. I am so fucking relieved when the conversation finally disappears from my mind and into the next tequila shot.
CHAPTER 17
You’re Not Alone
A ray of moonlight through my window brings me to consciousness. I sit straight up, staring into his face, wild and fierce, full of hate. It takes me a moment to realize he is me. I struggle to find the floor and then stumble to the mirror over the dresser. I peer at the reflection; it’s murky, but I can see it now—I look like him. If I look like Damon, he must look like his brother. How did I not see it?
Devastation, anger, and remorse run through me in a cacophony. I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I squeeze my eyes shut as a rapid succession of faces flies across a blank canvas in my mind. My family, the ones I belong to . . . but not really. I shake off that thought and try to persuade myself that my conception doesn’t change anything. But I know it does. If it didn’t, why did no one ever tell me?
Was Dylan Wolf a monster like his brother? I scream at that son of a bitch buried in a coffin somewhere—you bastard. Gripping the sink, I break down when I realize that no, I’m the bastard. What kind of fucking irony is that? Along with rage, should I be feeling shame? What do you call that combination of emotions?
I bend over and purge myself of my thoughts and the alcohol. Vomiting profusely, I fall to my knees and wrap my arms around the toilet. A rush of memories that I haven’t thought about in years surfaces, only causing me to want to expel the toxicity even more. I spit in the bowl one last time, making sure every ounce of wretchedness is gone.
“Feel any better?” my brother’s voice asks from behind me.
I slowly turn my head, not sure if any of my senses are functioning. It’s River, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. His eyes are red, bloodshot, even more so than when I left him two days ago.
“What are you doing here?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m here for you.”
“You should be home with your wife.”
“Bell’s with her and I should be here with you. I want to talk to you. I’ve been calling you and when I called Mom for the hundredth time Jack finally got on the phone and filled me in.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to be left alone.”
He stares at me. “Not happening. We can talk . . . or not. Your choice, but I’m not leaving.”
My heart rate picks up speed as I try to stand up, and he extends his arm to help me. I take it. He feels like my brother. He’s the same guy he always was— except we no longer share the same father.
I get a close look at him. “You look like shit.”
“You don’t look so hot yourself.” Then with his voice full of sarcasm, he adds, “You want another drink?”
“Fuck off,” I tell him. “And I’m not talking about it. I’m going back to fucking bed.”
“Suits me. I’m pretty exhausted myself.” He follows me into my bedroom.
I kick my boots off and peel out of my jeans before sliding into the sheets. He stares at me and throws himself on the bed.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not sleeping in the same bed as me.”
“The fuck I’m not,” he says and toes his shoes off.
I roll over with my back to him and close my eyes. “Whatever.”
? ? ?
When I next open my eyes the sun is filtering through my bedroom window and I’m alone. For a moment I’m the person I always was, but then the recent revelations come back to me. I feel the pain as soon as I lift my head, but I don’t give a shit how my head feels. Kicking out of bed, I glance over at my phone. I turn it on to see missed calls and messages from late last night and most recently an hour ago. My mother, Jack, Bell, the guys, and Ivy have all called. I turn it back off—I can’t deal with any of them right now, not even Ivy. Instead I walk out of my room and through the living room into the kitchen. River’s sitting at the kitchen table that used to belong to my grandparents . . . the people I thought were my grandparents anyway. He’s sipping a cup of coffee and thumping his fingers on the wooden tabletop.
He watches me cross the room to the coffeepot. I pour a cup and move to head out the back door onto the balcony.
“Where are you going?” his voice asks calmly.
“Outside. Where does it look like I’m going?”