Bobby looked through the window with obvious disgust. “Put some clothes on, Francine. You do know you’re out here in your underwear, right?” He swung the door open and stepped out in redneck gear—boots and Levi’s and a leather jacket that hung from scrawny shoulders. His hair was greasy and so was his face, his forehead gleaming in the darkness.

“Come on.” The woman lunged for the joint dangling from the corner of Bobby’s mouth. “I’m good for it. You know I am.”

Bobby held her back with an arm, craning his upper body out of reach. “Back off, you crazy bitch. You still owe me for last time.”

“I’ll pay you tomorrow, I swear.”

“With what? We both know you ain’t got no money.”

Jax looked over at the little girl, who’d sunk to the stoop, her face screwed up with tears. Jesus Christ. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow.

A familiar fire sparked in his chest. “What is wrong with you people? Stop laughing. Nothing about this is funny.”

Micah either didn’t hear or he didn’t care. The woman was still swiping at the air. Bobby was still twisting away, holding the joint high above his head. Micah clutched his stomach and laughed and laughed, hooting like they were some kind of street performers.

“Micah, shut up.” Jax banged on the hood of his Jeep with a fist. Micah was doubled over by now, wiping at his eyes, slapping his leg with hilarity. “Oh my God, you are such an asshole. How is this even remotely funny? This is tragic.”

Jax’s voice broke on the last word, and here came the tears, damn it. More than three months after his mother’s death, in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a bunch of people he didn’t want to see. Fucking figured.

Jax turned away in anger, in shame. He’d walk home. He’d sleep in the woods. He couldn’t stay here another miserable second.

“It’s okay,” the little girl said, and for a split second, Jax thought she was talking to him, until she ducked her head and pressed her cheek to the baby’s forehead. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna take care of you and we’re gonna be just fine, I promise.”

That was it. Party over. Bobby’s shiny yellow Camaro was just sitting there, with the door open and the keys hanging from the ignition. A getaway car if he’d ever seen one. He leaned his upper body inside, spotted the keys and Paul, crashed on the back seat. His head was slung back, his mouth hanging open. And bingo—he was clutching that second bottle of tequila.