As a criminal defense attorney, innocent until proven guilty is obviously a core tenet of my belief system. But trust me on this one. I’ve seen him deal with my own eyes. And as for Michael Fallon having good reasons for what he does? He’s 34 years old and in the middle class. His parents paid for his bachelor’s degree in social theory, for fuck’s sake. Date him if you want but just remember that I voted to veto.

“Jeez, Estrella’s got you worked up tonight, huh?” Richie, who’d been chatting up the guy on his right, finally turned his attention back to John, his eyes narrowing at the phone.

“What? Oh. I’m not texting with my mother.”

Richie’s expression fell. “Oh, Lord. What did Maddox get himself into now?”

John laughed bitterly, nodding his head at Marissa when she came back with his fries.

“He wants mustard, not ketchup, Marissa,” Richie reminded their bartender, who rolled her eyes and slid a bottle down the countertop toward them.

“You know,” John said, “I do, in fact, text people who aren’t my mother and my emotionally stunted younger brother.”

Maddox was John’s younger half brother, connected through the father that Maddox had grown up with and John hadn’t met until a decade ago. Maybe emotionally stunted was a tad harsh. But John couldn’t help but wonder if growing up with access to all their father’s money had kept Maddox from developing certain survival skills that the rest of the world seemed to have. Survival skills like caring about keeping a job and knowing how to do more in a kitchen than call up expensive delivery.

John, who’d grown up without their father, had come by those skills quite honestly.

Richie squinted his eyes into the beyond, theatrically raising his fingers one by one. “Estrella, Maddox and me. But hold on, I’m sitting right here. Who in God’s name is this mystery fourth texter?! I demand to know!”

John shook his head and stuffed some fries in his mouth, buying himself a moment. For some reason, he didn’t want to explain the arrangement with Mary to Richie. Or why he was texting with her. It was simple, innocent, but there was no telling how Richie’s perverted mind could twist it.

“Evening, girls,” a deep, borderline rude voice said from behind them, two meaty paws clapping over their shoulders.

John wasn’t often thrilled to run into Hogan Trencher around town, but right now he was relieved for the interruption. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and hoped that the appearance of Richie’s unrequited crush would squash any residual attention on who John had been texting.

“Evening, Hulk,” Richie said, a light blush washing over his cheekbones.