“How’s Luna doing?” I asked, checking the side mirrors. His daughter was almost a year old now. Babies were never my jam—I didn’t want to make them, but I loved practicing while using protection—but Luna had chunky thighs like Pillsbury rolls, a big-ass smile, and she clapped and did a weird dance every time I saw her on Skype. There wasn’t really anything not to like about her. Other than her mother.

“She’s good,” Trent said after a long pause, looking out the window with a frown. Dude was an old soul. Wasn’t cut out for the kind of lifestyle we lived. The women. The money. The weed. He didn’t enjoy any of that shit, not really. The only two things I ever saw him fully appreciate were his football—that ship had sailed a long time ago after multiple injuries our senior year—and his daughter.

“Bull. Shit. I’m not buying it. What the fuck is up?” I punched his arm. We were pulling out of the airport and onto a deserted highway. It was noon on a Saturday, and no one drove into Todos Santos unless they were headed to rob a fucking mansion. The blunt was lit, but Trent’s gray eyes remained turned off.

“Luna is amazing,” he said, leaving out a huge ‘but’.

“And?” I prompted.

“And Val is not,” he deadpanned.

Quick recap: Val was the Brazilian stripper who got knocked up with Trent’s baby after a one-night stand. She was a recovering coke addict, but Trent swore she got back on track after he shelled out the money for rehab. They weren’t together, but they were doing the whole co-parenting thing.

“Using again?” I quirked a brow. He threw his head back, scrubbing his eyes.

“Clean as far as I’m aware. She just seems…off.”

“Was she ever on?” I pushed the gas pedal, my mind wandering elsewhere. Rosie seemed downright miserable when I picked her up yesterday. I wasn’t sure if it was about Vicious or the rest of her family, but my bet was on the latter. She was the only person I knew other than myself who didn’t give two shits about Vicious’s power trips and general assholeness. Seeing her hurt stirred something in me. Yesterday was mind-blowing. Best sex I’ve had in…fuck, ever? That couldn’t be right. Two things I was certain of, though:

Rosie was probably regretting the shit out of it right now; and

There was going to be a repeat, soon, and this time, I was going to make sure that she was sober.

Trent twisted to face me. “Is it fucked up that I think Val doesn’t really love our daughter?”

Silence, then.

“Stop tripping.” I grabbed a foam ball from the center console and threw it at him, awkward laughter popping out of my mouth.

“She never spends any time with her. My daughter is either with the babysitter or with me. And it’s not like she doesn’t try. She does. But I think Luna makes her really unhappy. Val’s used to the nightlife. Before this, she was grinding her crotch on a pole for a living. Her alarm was set to two p.m., and she still hit the snooze button. She thinks motherhood is boring.”

“She also finds sperm-stealing a legitimate way to make a living,” I groaned, tugging at my hair. Fuck Val. She was manipulative, yes, sneaky, sure, and shady as fuck, but under the daddy-issues exterior, I pegged her for an okay chick. Trent was probably exaggerating. He set the bar way too high where parenting was concerned, taking his kid to swimming lessons and Gymboree classes before she even rolled over. Val was going to come around. She was a strong girl, and Luna was going to grow out of the phase where she shits herself every few hours and cries the rest of the time.

“Dunno, man.” Trent shrugged, smoking and looking out the window. “I just…” he paused, dragging his fingers across his buzzed head. “Sometimes it feels like something bad’s about to happen, but I can’t seem to stop it.”

“Because it might,” I supplied. “And because you can’t. It’s called reality.”

“Reality sucks balls.”

“That’s the rumor,” I agreed. “You need to let it go and make sure that you do the right thing.”

As we passed by the lush green sign welcoming us to Todos Santos, I tried to remind myself the same thing.

About Nina.

About Rosie.

About everything.

Dean

Sup, sleepyhead. That hangover kicking your tight ass?

An hour passed before she answered, but I knew she saw the message. She was probably typing and deleting, obsessing, debating, hating herself, hating me. That was fine. It was all a part of the process. Then—fucking finally—she wrote back. One word:

Rosie

Yeah.

I stared at the word hard. No girl had ever one-worded me in a text message before. This chick was like egomaniac boot camp. I began to type my next text when another one came through.