Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice kills me. “Oh, Rhett—”

“Look, I know y’all love Amelia more than you love me—”

“That’s not true.”

I manage a smile. “Thanks for saying that.”

“There’s more to this than the two of you just not ‘working it out.’ Did something happen in Charleston? I could tell Amelia didn’t want to go.”

“We-wa,” Liam mimes. The word sends a stab of pain through my center.

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” I growl. Anger: always so much easier than pain. “Besides, there’s not much to say. I appreciate you helping us out until I can find another nanny.”

Mom gasps. “You fired her?”

“She quit.”

Like he knows what’s going down, Liam starts to cry.

“Aw, buddy, I’m sorry.” Patting his back, I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well. Here, let’s go watch Mickey.”

“Lili watch Mi-hey,” he says, voice pitiful and small.

Mom holds out her arms. “I’ll take him. You go shower and get a little sleep. Maybe then you’ll talk some sense.”

“Mama, please.” I give Liam one last kiss and hand him over. “I’m doin’ my best here.”

She gives me a once over, frowning. “I know you are, son. Go get some rest.”

I’m hurting. I’m hungover. I’m ashamed of both.

Spearing a hand through my hair, I look away. “Holler if you need me. Thanks again, Mama.”

“Rhett, wait. This is the last thing I’ll say: if I could’ve traded all the money your father ever made for just one more good year with him, I would do it in a heartbeat. Think about that, son—one year.”

I take a breath and flatten my palm on the countertop, the cool marble a welcome antidote to the bloat of heat that fills me. “Daddy didn’t make the kind of money I do. The amounts we’re talking about are different. Night and day, Mom.”

“But the risk is the same. And listen, it’s not just the CTE. It’s time spent away from your son. It killed your father, literally, knowing he couldn’t get those years back. You can’t get those years back with Liam either. It was also different for you. You had your older siblings. You had me. I say this with love, Rhett—but if you’re in Vegas with Liam for the next however many years, we won’t be in his life as the anchor I was for you kids.”

Right. Because he doesn’t have a mom anymore.

Closing my eyes, I take another breath. I hadn’t thought about it like that. All of this—everything I want, how I feel about myself, the path it’s led me down—it all comes back to the fact that my dad wasn’t around much, and when he was, he wasn’t well.

Would my son really want me over money?

I remember what Beau said. Liam doesn’t need a trust fund. He needs you.

My head swims. Gut churns. Fuck. Fuck.

But it’s too late to change course now. I’ve already jerked everyone around enough. I planted my flag in the sand, and it stays there.

It has to stay there.

And I gotta get in the shower. I give Mama a quick kiss and head for my bedroom. My feet are lead weights. The knocking in my head has become so acute I feel sick.

Whatever. Nothing some sleep, Gatorade, and ibuprofen can’t fix.

But then I climb into bed, and I’m hit by the scent of Amelia’s shampoo rising off her pillow, and I wonder if I’ve ever felt more wretched in my life.

Wretched. Who do I think I am, a character in that Bridgerton show Samuel won’t shut the fuck up about?

It’s just the only word that feels horribly unique enough to capture this feeling. I’m being crushed to death by a mound of defensive tackles while simultaneously getting drilled in the head by, well, a literal drill bit.

My heart feels like it’s been chewed up and spit out.

My saliva thickens. I make it to the toilet just in time. I lose the contents of my meal, plus what must be a half-gallon of whiskey, into the bowl, heaving until there’s nothing left. And then I dry heave some more, arms shaking as I attempt to hold myself up on the seat.

There’s a rap on the door.

“Rhett?” Mama says. “Rhett, sweetheart, are you all right?”

Falling onto the floor beside the toilet, I rest my back against the wall. “I’m fine, Mama.”

“I left more Gatorade on your nightstand.”

Because I don’t feel like enough of a shitbag. “Thanks. Thank you so much, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I’m here if you need anything.”

Hanging my head between my knees, I can only think of one thing: low point.

I only have up to go from here, right?

We’re waiting for you, she calls, waving her racket. Come play!

Sunset catches on her hair and shoulders. She’s smiling wide, all white teeth and full lips, and my dick throbs at the memory of those lips around it, my head disappearing into her mouth as she sucked. Teased. Gave.