“Yeah, baby,” somebody yelled.

There were leers and whistles as she bent over to take her shot. Planted her feet. Wiggled her hips in that short, tight skirt. The guy behind her grabbed her ass, and she straightened, whirled, and cracked her cue over his head.

Oh shit.

Trey shouted. I lurched from the booth at the same moment Bearded Guy launched from the bar, muscling in between Amy and the guy she’d just clobbered.

Chairs scraped—customers pushing to their feet, jostling to get closer or away. Beer spilled. A woman screamed. Her boyfriend threw a punch at one of the pool players, who swung back. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Breathless, I shoved through a blur of bodies, beer, and sweat, desperate to get to Amy. I threw my arm around her. Bearded Guy had grabbed her elbow on the other side and was hauling her toward the door. I hung on, looking back for Trey. He was at the bar, his wallet out.

“She with you?” I heard the bartender ask.

“Yes.”

“Get her out of here.”

We were already out, pushing through the door, spilling into the sputtering neon light of the bar sign. Amy wobbled as the cold air hit her. Among the pickups in the parking lot, Trey’s low-slung Italian sports car was easy to spot. We crunched toward it over the gravel, our breath fogging in the dark.

“Thank you,” I said to Bearded Guy. Was he the bouncer? He looked vaguely familiar.

He frowned down at me. “Does your ma know you girls are here?”

Thanksgiving, I thought. He’d come to our house for Thanksgiving dinner.

Amy hiccupped. “Momma’s in the hospital.”

He went still. “She gonna be okay?”

“She had back surgery,” I said. “She’s doing much better now.”

“Glad to hear it. Nice lady, your mother.”

Trey appeared, striding onto the scene like a Disney prince, lean build, dark hair, great teeth. “Are you all right?”

Amy turned her face into my shoulder, refusing to look at him. She was probably mortified. “Fine,” I said. “Thanks to, uh . . .” Well, shoot. I couldn’t remember his name.

Trey extended his hand to our bearded rescuer. “Appreciate it, man.”

The man ignored his gesture. “What the hell were you thinking, bringing these girls to a place like this?”

Trey scowled.

“It was my idea,” I said hastily. “My fault.”

My fault. Amy’s fault. We brought out the worst in each other. We always had. Me running away, her following . . . Disaster.

“People change,” Trey had insisted.

But where my sisters were concerned, I hadn’t changed at all.

The next morning Amy staggered downstairs looking wan. “Coffee,” she croaked.

I glanced up from my laptop, fighting my own fatigue. “You should eat something first.”

She turned paler, if that were possible. “I can’t.”

“Hangover?” I asked sympathetically.

She sank gracefully into our mother’s chair, closing her eyes. “Jet lag.”