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I’m vaguely aware of the crowd moving away from us. “No one’s talking to you,” I spit.

“Just go home, McMann,” he says, sneering at me. “No one wants you here.”

My fist connects with his jaw before I register the thought and I watch him stagger backwards as though someone else is responsible. Breathing hard, the loud music swims in and out of focus as I watch Joy push past me to get to him. I’m vaguely aware of shouting behind me and when hands grab at me, shoving me backwards, I tear out of their grasp.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn and push my way through the crowd, purposefully avoiding looking at Aldo or Joy. I failed at breaking Masters tonight but I’m pretty sure whatever’s on their faces would be what finally breaks me.

JOY

“Doug!” Aldo calls, his eyes wild as he looks between Lane and Doug’s hastily retreating figure, the bouncers close on his tail. “Fuck. I’m going after him.”

“Don’t,” Lane says, wincing. “He needs to cool off. He’s not going to hear anything you have to say to him right now.”

Aldo opens his mouth to protest, but then his shoulders sag and he turns to Lane. But he just gently pushes Aldo away, clutching his jaw as he stalks off the dance floor and I follow, trying and failing to understand what the hell just happened.

Doug is nowhere to be seen after reacting like a father finding his teenage daughter making out with the gardener.Making out.My mind spins as I watch Aldo ask the bartender for some ice. I barely had time to register what I was seeing before Doug lost his shit, but the image is still there, burned into my brain. Lane and Aldo kissing and clawing at each other as though they were starved of each other. How long has it been going on? Was Lane storming off just a ploy to get some time alone together? Is that why Aldo insisted on going after him?

The club is too hot, and I gulp at the warm air, signaling to the bartender and asking for a water. When Aldo places a hand on my shoulder, I flinch.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Am I?I shrug, refusing to look at him.

“Can we get out of here?” Aldo asks, loud enough that I know he’s talking to Lane as well.

I down my water, almost thankful that Doug stole my last drink. At least there’s less chance I’ll be dealing with a hangover after this nightmare of an evening is over with. I halfheartedly glance at my watch to find it’s almost two a.m. and groan.

The air is thick with unspoken words as we traipse up the steps and out onto the quiet street. The guy on the door eyes us warily as we leave, and I don’t blame him. At least it didn’t turn into a full-on brawl.

“Come on,” Aldo says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s too cold out here.”

Lane and I fall into step on either side of him, walking in silence as we look for somewhere quiet. It doesn’t take long until we stumble across a small empty bar where the music is played through speakers overhead and the bartender looks putout that we’ve walked in. If I wasn’t so cold, I’d feel bad about it.

Lane orders three sodas before hauling himself up onto a seat at a high table. Aldo follows suit and I hesitate, but he gives me a pleading look that has me sighing and taking the remaining stool.

We sit in silence, and I stir the ice cubes in my soda with my straw just to have a reason not to look at either of them.

“I’m sorry, Joy,” Lane says.

I look up at him with a frown. “For what?”

His eyes widen. “For tonight. For—”

“You’re single, Lane,” I say, internally grimacing at how funny Doug would find that sentence. “You have nothing to apologize for. You can kiss and fuck whomever you please.”

Aldo stiffens next to me, and I steel myself before meeting his big, deep brown eyes. “As are you. You have nothing to apologize for either.”

I swear he looks disappointed.

“We never discussed seeing other people,” I continue. “But it was implied, I guess. I’m just surprised because I assumed you were both straight, which is my problem, not yours.”

Aldo groans and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m not seeing anyone else, Joy. Tonight, just sort of . . . happened.”

My eyebrows shoot up and I glance at Lane, my gaze flitting to the bruising that’s already settling onto his chin. At least Doug didn’t break his nose.

“How long have you been fucking McMann?” Lane asks.

I freeze. But then I realize the question isn’t directed toward me.

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