“I snooped on your computer,” I admitted. “I think you’re gay. I think maybe your folks wouldn’t accept it, but now that they’re dead, it’s difficult to keep up with the charade.”
“Not another word, Noa.” His voice came out hoarse, and he stalked toward the hallway. “We’re not discussing this any further—I just want you to know you crossed a major line today.”
But I didn’t! I gnashed my teeth and wanted nothing more than to follow him. I hadn’t crossed a line. Okay, I had—I definitely had—but the goal was always to make KC happy. He was the most important person in the world to me, and I hated the idea of him hiding who he was. By any means necessary, I had to change that. Even if it angered him in the process. It wasn’t as if I was going to out him to anyone else. This was just him and me. We had a special relationship. He was equal parts father figure and friend. He was my biggest support. We’d sought each other out so many times over the years and spent hours together when Mom hit rock bottom, something that happened every other year or so. Then, we’d fuck off, him and me. We’d be there for her, and once she was down for the count or—if it was really bad—we’d checked her in to rehab, we’d go out to dinner or go see a movie or go rock-climbing or go skiing. Just to recover, recuperate, get some downtime.
I couldn’t lose that.
I chewed on my lip and felt emotions welling up, and I sniffled. It wasn’t fair.
Hell, let him divorce Mom. It was for the best. We’d done everything we could for her—and then some. It’d been years of empty promises. “This won’t happen again.” And it always happened again. She never took therapy seriously. Whether it was alcohol, prescription drugs, or gambling. And nobody understood KC better than me. He had to be fucking exhausted. I sure was. So yeah, I found it more than acceptable for him to say he’d had enough. But maybe there was one more thing I was terrified of, and it was being left by him.
“Fuck.” I scrubbed my hands over my face vigorously, torn between standing my ground and falling to my knees and apologizing.
Had I done the right or the wrong thing?
“You’re drinkin’ like an Irishman, lad,” T said. “Isn’t that your fourth shot?”
I nodded and threw it back. Then I coughed, because whiskey was fucking gross.
I didn’t wanna be the baby wolf at the moment. A nickname I’d earned because I was little…and about fifteen years younger than the other members. They took care of me like a kid brother but without any good-natured harassment. But tonight, I didn’t want their protection or boundaries. I didn’t wanna limit myself to two drinks. I didn’t want their reminders to insert earplugs or “drink more water.”
I was gonna get smashed!
It wasn’t like my stepdad was here to stop me. He’d been avoiding me for the past two weeks. And he was really good at it. He wasn’t the douchebag who dodged my calls or refused to be in the same room as me. No, he just made sure to always have Mom nearby or steer the conversation to whatever topic he deemed safe. He answered every time I called—or texted if he couldn’t pick up the phone. But it was there in his tone, in his posture, in the way he didn’t look at me anymore. He was guarded and on edge.
I’d been shut out.
By the time we took to the stage, I was feeling marginally better. Barry, our guitar player, had made me a drink with tequila, and that shit was evidently my jam. The lights flashed across the club, the smoke machine sent pillars of white smoke straight into the audience, and T flirted with the ladies closest to the stage.
Our band was perfect for me. It was a hobby, something we definitely couldn’t live off of, but the money we did make covered all expenses, and our little following was really loyal. They turned every gig into a party.
“Oi! Shut up, everyone!” T hollered into the mic. “Let’s give it up for our wee wolf, eh? He’s well on his way to bein’ completely shitfaced, so tonight’ll be interesting!”
I grinned like a dope, seeing more strobe lights than I probably should, and got comfortable behind my drums. Then I cupped my hands around my mouth and let out the mandatory “Awooooooo!” before I took the lead with the first song. Nicky filled in with the mandolin, T’s rough voice followed after, and then Barry and Morris.
I never felt so Irish as I did when we played, despite that my biological father apparently was Irish. I’d never met the bastard, but Mom had shared some stories.