burst into tears and driven away...and he’d found out a few hours later she crashed her car and died instantly.
The flashback had unnerved him. There’d been no reason for it.
Jessie Kay looked nothing like Tessa. The two were as different as night and day, in fact. While Tessa had been short and slender with dark hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes that hinted at a multicultural heritage, Jessie Kay was tall and curvy with pale hair and navy blue eyes that were always simmering with enough heat to blister.
The only thing they had in common? Both were beautiful. And, honestly, they were the only two women in the world capable of jacking up his blood pressure with only a glance.
When he’d been sober, he’d treated Tessa like a queen. Now he was always sober, but he only ever treated Jessie Kay like a portal to hell. Not on purpose. Or maybe it was on purpose. The first time he’d seen her, he’d wanted her with an intensity that had scared him stupid, but she’d ended up sleeping with Beck, and later on, Jase.
It’s my turn now.
The thought—one he’d had many times before—pissed him off. There was no reason good enough to risk bad blood between him and his friends. Not that either guy would care if he and Jessie Kay hooked up. They encouraged him to go for it at least once a day. They liked her. The problem was West. If he had her—this woman who sometimes haunted his dreams—would he grow to resent his friends for beating him to the finish line?
The mere possibility always stopped him from making a move. Always pissed him off more than the “my turn” nonsense. He would let nothing come between him and his boys.
West tossed the contaminated sandwich in the garbage, fell into his chair with a grunt and loosened the knot in his tie, which was currently choking the life out of him. If food touched the floor, it never touched his lips. In one of the foster homes he’d lived, the father found it hilarious to watch the kids in his care eat off dirty linoleum, their hands tied behind their backs.
Get used to it, boy. Some people aren’t meant for better.
Not all of the homes had been hellholes. Most had been pretty decent, granting him a better life than he ever would have had with his mom. Della West had never mistreated him and might have even loved him, but she’d loved her heroin more.
A knock sounded at his door. He glanced up to find Beck standing in the open doorway.
The six-foot self-proclaimed sex god strode into the office and plopped into the chair across from the desk. Flakes of snow dotted the guy’s hair, giving the gold and brown strands a deeper depth of color.
He unwound a cashmere scarf and shrugged out of his coat. “Saw Jessie Kay and Daniel Porter on my way in. You all right?”
He wished his friends had never clued in to his struggle—wanting her, but not wanting to want her. “I’m fine.”
“Well, could you do me a favor and inform your face? You look like you’re constipated.”
“Haven’t you heard? Constipation is the new black. All the cool kids are doing it. Or not doing it.”
Beck snorted, his amber eyes twinkling. Unfortunately, the amusement didn’t last long. “Seriously, my man. You good?”
The guy worried about him. That wasn’t new. To be honest, West worried about himself.
As a kid, he vowed he wouldn’t end up like his mother. And for most of his teenage years, he’d succeeded, treating drugs and alcohol like the enemy. Then Jase was sent to prison for a crime West and Beck helped him commit, and West had wanted to escape reality, just for a little while. Coke isn’t heroin, he’d rationalized. The same rationalization he’d used the next time...and the next...
When Tessa died, it wasn’t long before the highlight of his day was cutting blow and snorting from any flat surface he could find—before he woke up nearly every morning covered in his own vomit.
Eventually he lost his scholarship to MIT, which was just another reason to get high. He’d failed himself, but more important, he’d failed his friends. Jase had taken full responsibility for their crime so West could go to school, get a degree and make something of his life. Beck wasted years trying to get him clean.
Even now, guilt was too strong to shake.
He’d failed Tessa worst of all. He’d even failed his mom. When he’d finally sobered up, putting himself in a place to help her with her own problem, it was too late. She was already dead. One overdose too many.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to relapse. I’m attracted to Jessie Kay, but I’m not in love with her.” He would never allow himself to fall so deeply again.
“Why not? She’s the total package. A lady in the kitchen and a wildcat—”
“Stop talking,” he said through suddenly gritted teeth.
“Everywhere else.” Beck had always dealt with tense situations in one of two ways: teasing or taunting. “Why? What’d you think I was going to say?”
Refuse to resent. “If she’s so world-class amazing, why didn’t you fall for her?”
“One of the hazards of jumping into bed too fast.” Beck shrugged. “You find out later you’re better off as friends. Besides, she’s not Harlow.”
She wasn’t Tessa, either. And now this conversation was over. “All right. If I’ve passed today’s sobriety test, I’ve got work to do.”
“Happy to say you passed the sobriety test. Sad to say you failed the asshole test.”
“Not that. Anything but that.” He shook a fist toward the ceiling. “Why? Why me?”
“And now you’ve failed the shithead test. Where’s my thanks for showing up just because my best friend is a workaholic and he’d throw a he-hissy if I suggested we take an ice break?”
“Here.” West flipped him off. “This is your thanks.”
Grinning, Beck stood and gathered his discarded garments. “Heartwarming. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
Alone, West admitted that, despite his levity, he wasn’t actually in a good place. Could he pass a true sobriety test?
Let’s find out.
He unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. A bottle of Lagavulin stared up at him. He traced a finger over the cold glass.
Drink me, the whiskey said. Just a sip. I’ll help you relax.
Truer words had never not been spoken. But West knew the sense of relaxation would only last for a little while. Later he would fall back into his foul mood and he would need another drink...and then he’d turn to coke. The bane of his existence. The demon on his shoulder.
There’d been many mornings when, in the prime of his addiction, he’d frantically raced through his apartment on a hunt for money. He’d checked for loose bills under couch cushions and inside the washer and dryer, and when he’d found nothing, he’d snuck into Beck’s bedroom to rifle through dresser
