Weekends had never been as appealing to me as they were to my friends, which was why I tended to drag my heels after school on Fridays.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to spend any more time there than I physically had to. I was gone at the ass crack of dawn most mornings and only came home to sleep.

I tried to make the best of it; living my life around Wren's work schedule, avoiding him like the proverbial plague, and giving the house a wide berth when he was home. He had this weekend off, which meant that I needed to make myself scarce.

Usually, I wasted my weekends with Rourke, but my best friend was preoccupied with his mission of screwing his stepsister. I had every faith in his ability to wear Mercedes down, but I sure as shit didn’t want to watch it happen, which left me at a loss.

After spinning around in my truck for more than an hour, I pulled into Reebo's driveway and killed the engine. If I couldn’t hang at Rourke's house, then Reebo's was a strong second.

A piece of me – okay, a huge fucking chunk – had wanted to swing by Molly's house instead. I knew she was home alone, she'd told me as much last night, but showing up out of the blue without an invitation didn't seem right.

Not anymore at least.

"King Daryl!" came an echo of hollers when I stepped inside the Rose family residence.

"Evening," I acknowledged, dropping into the armchair closest to the door. "Where's Grammy?"

Reebo's parents weren't in the picture. He lived with his grandma, whose mind played a helluva lot of tricks on her these days. She was 1950's old school, and waited on her grandson and his friends like we were goddamn royalty. I shit you not. The woman wore a pink frilled apron and served sandwiches without the crusts. Ice tea was on tap and the place always felt warm and smelled like cinnamon.

Best of all, Grammy Rose had a prescription for medical marijuana for her arthritis, that we made good use of, and kept the fridge stocked with beer for Tony.

Tony was Reebo's grandpa. He'd been dead for more than forty years, but Grammy Rose insisted that he was due home from the war any day now.

"In her room," Reebo replied as he inhaled a deep drag. "Watching Dynasty reruns." Passing the spliff to Mason Starr, he leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. "Fuck yeah," he breathed, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Mase took a hit and held the spliff out to Bear Hernandez, who quietly refused.

"Dude?" Mase wheezed, eyes bloodshot, as he leaned across the couch towards me.

"Fuck it," I muttered with a shrug and reached for the joint.

Aside from Rourke, the three guys sitting on the couch were my closest friends. We'd been friends since Pre-K and played for the Falcon's, but none of these people knew me. They only saw the person I pretended to be. They had no fucking clue what I was dealing with on the inside. Only two people did. Rourke…