That’s the understatement of the motherfucking year.

Whatever happens tonight, my brother will never be the same.

I nod again in uncertainty.

“You know my number if you need anything,” Silas adds. “Finn will wait until close to leave, so someone will still be working the door.”

I check my watch. “It’s only an hour before close.”

“You think she’ll be okay?” He jerks his head toward Cassidy, who’s headed in our direction.

The new girl was living in my head rent-free all night before the shitshow happened. She sprinkled flirtation with every drink order she called out to me, making it impossible not to laugh. In my short breaks, I eyed the men watching her strut through the bar, sleek and almost catlike. Her wavy blond hair feathered over her shoulders with each step she took, and it never took long for her petite frame to get lost in the sea of crammed tables.

“You good with working without help?” Silas asks her.

“Definitely.” She shoots me an amused smile. “If I have any questions, I’ll ask my man here.” Her attention returns to Silas. “You going to the hospital?”

Silas plays with the toothpick in his mouth. “Yeah.”

Cassidy snags the pencil behind her ear and shoves it into her apron. “Will you keep us updated on her condition?”

“I got you.” He salutes us and leaves.

A flush creeps up Cassidy’s cheeks as she rests her elbows on the bar and smirks. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

I offer a polite smile. “Looks like it.”

“We’ll make a damn great team.” She holds out her hand for a high five.

I high-five her with as much enthusiasm as a dude who just tested positive for the clap. It’s out of character for me to be uptight, but tonight, concern pours through me. Hell, I’d take a curable STD over what happened to Georgia. Archer doesn’t cope well with loss, people getting hurt, or when he seems responsible for something bad happening. If Georgia’s condition is critical, it’ll gut him. Turning the TVs back on, I hope the rest of the night flies by.

“Yo! Bartender!” a yellow-polo-sporting frat boy yells a few barstools down from us. “How about a drink on the house for that mood killer?”

“What an asshole,” Cassidy says, not bothering to lower her voice. “Poison his drink … or at least spit in it.”

Frat Boy shoots her a glare.

She smirks in response.

Even though all I want to do is kick him out, I yank a glass from the stack and pour him a beer on the house.

The cheapest shit we carry.

The kind that delivers a hell of a hangover.

I hate fuckers who take advantage of vulnerable situations.

Asshole mutters a, “Thank you,” and his friends blurt their free drink requests at me.

This will be one long hour.