Be My Hero (Forbidden Men 3)

Pain shot through my gut as soon as I said the words. This wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair at all. Unable to keep looking at her picture, but unable to leave her page, I scrolled down, learning as much as I could about her. But all I saw was this self-absorbed, rich party girl. She was either drinking it up at some immaculately lavish home with a bunch of carbon copies just like her or she was snapping pictures of new purchases she'd made at the mall. All her status updates were bashing someone she didn't like, talking about her latest shopping spree, or figuring out where she wanted to get drunk next.

Though her page hadn't been updated in five months, probably around the time she'd learned she was going to have a baby, there were no pictures of any family members, no talk of anything good she'd done, and—shit.

When I came across a seven-month old picture of her hanging all over some clean-cut, dark-haired prick in Dockers and a collared Polo shirt, I stopped and stared, unable to shed the jealousy that gnawed at my gut.

Was this him, then? When I shifted my finger to run the cursor over the frame, the name Alec Worthington appeared. My jaw popped. I wondered if the cougar had just been talking out her ass when she'd said Eva had tried to trap him into marriage by getting herself pregnant, or if it was true. But I seriously doubted he'd been the one to rape her. She wouldn't have let a picture of him stay on her page if he had been. Would she?

Either way, I still hated him. I hated everything he represented. But most of all, I hated what he meant to her. He was obviously the type she preferred: rich, pampered, entitled. He was everything I wasn't.

White-hot envy burned deep in my gut. I just couldn't believe she was already taken or that she was the kind of person I usually resented.

None of this made sense. If fate had really labeled Eva Mercer as my soul mate, then why did we come from worlds so far apart it was frankly a miracle we'd ever crossed paths? Which made me wonder how a girl from the yacht club kind of life had ended up at the Forbidden Nightclub at two in the morning on a Thursday night, six or seven months pregnant. Mason's girl was obviously her cousin but . . . fuck, it didn't matter. I'd never see her again.

I didn't want to think about this anymore. It didn't matter how long I wondered about anything; I

wouldn't get any answers. Why was I torturing myself like this?

Reaching out to shut the lid to Tristy's laptop, I paused when a little message box popped up in the bottom right-hand corner of her page.

When I saw it was from Quick Shot, everything inside me went cold. Quick Shot had been one of Tristy's drug buddies back in the day. I'd suspected he might've been her supplier too, but I'd never been sure. Until now.

The message read: hey babe u stil lookin for a hit?

My hands balled into fists and my muscles went so taut Julian shifted restlessly, letting me know he'd fallen asleep.

Counting to ten, I forced myself to breathe deeply and not lose it. Then I set my fingers to the keyboard and mechanically typed: No.

The fucker replied instantly. wi not? ur ol man kach u?

I assumed kach was idiot-speak for catch, so I answered: Something like that.

Mabe latr then.

Jesus, learn how to spell, you dip shit.

I slammed the laptop shut, startling Julian. Drool ran down the back of my hand as his mouth lost contact with my knuckle.

Blowing out a breath to calm myself, I tossed the laptop onto the couch and eased from the chair. After carrying the baby to my room and settling him gently in his crib, I covered him up and then stood there a moment, watching him sleep before I felt composed enough to confront Tristy.

I shut the door behind me as I stepped into the hallway. After I reached the barred entrance to her room, I waited another moment, trying to keep my shit together.

And then I began to pound on her door.

"Get up, Tristy. We need to talk." I'm sure I was loud enough to wake her, but when she didn't open the door within a minute, I completely lost my temper.

"God dammit," I bellowed, pounding hard enough to rattle the entire doorframe. "I swear I will break this fucking door down if you don't open it within ten seconds."

Five seconds later, I began to shout, "Ten. Nine. Eight."

The door flew open, and my lovely bride of less than a day glared at me, wearing an old ratty pair of boxer shorts and a too-large T-Shirt covering the fact she hadn't lost any of her baby weight since giving birth.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she muttered, rubbing her eyes and shoving ratty tangles of red hair out of her face.

"Are you still talking to Quick Shot?" I demanded, folding my arms over my chest.

"What?" she croaked in the middle of a yawn. Dropping her arms to her sides, she muttered a curse. "Jesus Christ. You woke me in the middle of the night to ask that? I thought the fucking building was on fire."

"Answer the question, Tristy."