Eight. Fucking. Years. Ago.

I was scared shitless to find out what had happened since that night.

Had I made it to the UFC?

Were Nikki and I a…thing? A thing didn’t encompass how I felt about her. I was far from ready to settle down, but if that day ever came, it was too easy to see her filling that role. Easier to think of her than the brunette who tested my sanity and willpower every time I saw her. I wasn’t about to touch jailbait.

Except she wasn’t jailbait anymore.

My head spun, though whether from the puzzle pieces of my own mind, or the constant ache in my shoulder, I didn’t know.

The door suddenly opened, and Jax stepped inside. “How’re you feeling?”

I glanced down at the bandage covering the area where a bullet had passed clean through. “Good as can be expected.” My gaze veered to my brother. “Adam won’t tell me shit.”

They exchanged a look, and I gritted my teeth.

“This is getting old. Spill, or I’ll find out on my own.”

Adam looked at his watch, and the shuffle of his feet told me he was itching to ditch. “I think you should fill him in, Jax. You know him best anyway.”

What the hell? How could this stranger know me better than my own brother? Okay, so we weren’t exactly close, but still. We were family.

“I’ll call you after my meeting ends.” He reached for the door.

“Adam,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Where the fuck is Dad?”

“I don’t think now is the time…” He swallowed hard.

“Just tell me. Is he sick? Out of state on business? What the fuck is going on?”

“Dad passed a year ago.” His voice was so soft and low, it took a few seconds for those words to penetrate. Strength fled my body, and I sank into the pillows. A lump formed in my throat, preventing me from speaking. Something foreign burned behind my eyes. Tears. Grief. I never cried. Crying was a weakness. Crying was for pansies.

Adam dropped his head, one hand on the open door. “Rafe? Did you hear what I said?”

Through my blurry vision, I saw a nurse move past in the hall. “How did it happen?” I didn’t recognize the thick quality of my voice.

“Cancer.”

I thought back to all the years I’d seen a cigarette dangling from Dad’s mouth, all the times Adam and I tried to convince him to give up the habit. “He never quit, did he?”

“He was the definition of stubborn,” Adam said, shaking his head.

“Did he suffer?” I knew it was a ridiculous question, but I had to hear it.

My brother lifted his eyes, so like my own, and the weight of his sorrow crushed me. “You know Dad. He fought with everything he had.”