Miles of coastal highway fly by and before I know it, I pull up in front of Brendan and Vidya's house and park against the curb. Unfortunately, I'm feeling less than festive after being subjected to a bloodbath of a family dinner and a stuffy semi-formal soirée with the local elite.

My neck feels like it's in a vise. Loosening the knot of my crimson silk tie, I tug it off and toss it onto the passenger seat beside me, unfastening the top buttons of my dress shirt. It only partially helps; the real source of tension is coming from within my body.

Taking a deep breath, I switch off the ignition, killing the 'mood boosting' playlist Spotify had suggested. Not surprisingly, it didn't deliver. Short of a magic pill or a blowjob, nothing would help my state of mind right now.

In the console, my phone lights up with yet another message from guys on the team telling me to meet up with them at Fitz's place. But spending time with them is just a bitter reminder of what I'm missing.

My cherry red Cayenne beeps as I lock it, walking up the path leading to the recently renovated yellow two-storey house. It's in a family-friendly neighborhood—perfect for them, but the thought of life in the suburbs is my worst nightmare. I'll stick to my place in the South Bay within walking distance of restaurants and nightlife.

I enter the code to let myself in the front door and hang up my black wool coat in the front closet. Music tumbles down the hall along with a peal of female laughter.

"How was dinner?" Brendan asks, strolling up with an imported beer in one hand. For once, he's ditched his trademark v-neck sweater in lieu of a navy dress shirt. Vidya must have been responsible for taking his attire out of sweater-vest land for tonight.

"I'm sure you can imagine." The atmosphere during dinner was chillier inside than out, which is saying a lot given that it's nearly freezing outside.

He winces. "That bad?"

"Worse."

Networking is admittedly good for business—I've invested a portion of my hefty NHL salary into several other business ventures, and you never know when you might need a favor from city hall or a wealthy investor with some spare cash—but watching my parents interact verges on psychological torture. For the life of me, I cannot understand why they refuse to call it quits.

Except, I know exactly why they won't. Priority number one: preserving my father's public image as Senator, portraying him as a family man and doting husband. All things considered, I suppose he's a decent enough father. He attended my minor hockey games growing up, taught me how to drive, and he's always there if I need advice. His advice tends to skew a little condescending and I don't often take him up on it, but I could if I wanted.

My father's performance review for role as husband would be far less glowing, however. Then again, my mother's hands aren't exactly clean at this point either. You'd think they would agree to look the other way and live separate lives privately, maintaining a civil front, but the animosity between them is off the charts. I wish I could visit them separately under some kind of adult shared custody agreement.

"We're just in the middle of a game," Brendan tells me. "You want to buy in?"

The fact that schooling them all at poker—which I always do—doesn't even appeal to me right now tells you everything you need to know about where my head is at.

"Maybe after I get a drink." Or ten. Except I need to stay sober, because there's a decent chance I'm going to have to leave to go act as my brother's cleanup crew later, as per usual.

"Okay, come find us after you do." With a nod, he turns to head for the den. Brendan is forever convinced that one day, he'll finally beat me at poker. In the ten years I have known him, it has yet to happen. I've got to give him credit for his persistence and optimism.

When I emerge from the hallway that leads into the open-plan living room and kitchen, I find Brooke perched on the grey sectional with a few of her friends whose names I don't remember. Mostly because it's hard to pay attention to much of anything else when she's around.

Brooke tips her head back, laughing at something one of her friends said, before glancing down and readjusting them neckline of her tight purple dress—which leaves very little to the imagination. Her glossy dark waves cascade down around over her shoulders, and all I can think of is wrapping her hair around my fist while she's bent over my bed.

Mental note to avoid that area, at least until I've had a drink and gotten my head straight. I avert my eyes from Brooke and spot a makeshift bar set up in the far corner of the all-white kitchen, making a beeline for it.

From the other side of the room, Vidya strolls over. We exchange a brief hug, pulling apart, and she rakes a hand through her long black hair as she studies me with concern.

"Are you driving home tonight or crashing here, Dean?" She's a med student specializing in pediatrics and fittingly, also the mother hen of our friend group. I'm not one to drink and drive, but she's still the worrying type.

I gesture to the bar. "Heading home later. Just having one, promise."

Vidya looks at me quizzically, as most people would when you say you're staying sober on New Year's Eve.

Surveying our surroundings to ensure no one is within earshot, I lower my voice. "Need to be able to drive in case any family issues arise. You know."

It feels a little weird to share this information with Vidya, since I rarely ever talk about it, but as Brendan's fiancée, she knows the deal with Joshua by now. She's seen me have to bail on short notice more than a few times. Plus, one time I had to send a Brendan on my place when I was out of town.

"Oh, okay." Vidya's expression softens and she opens her mouth, hesitating for a beat. Her warm brown eyes study my face. I suspect she wants to say something comforting, but doesn't know what to say. Most people don't, when your younger brother is a gambling addict. "Well, the spare room is all yours if you change your mind."

"Thanks Vidya."

Holidays are a high-risk time, especially since we just had a tense family gathering. I tried to convince Joshua to come here with me so I could keep an eye on him, but he refused my offer—knowing him, probably so he can go do something irresponsible, like rack up as much debt as possible with the most ruthless loan sharks in town.

That part is beyond my control. Staying sober in case of emergency is the only thing I can do.

From the other room, someone calls out. "Vidya! It's your turn."

"I've gotta go kick some ass at Cards Against Humanity." She inclines her head to the hall. "Brendan's in the den with some of the guys."

"Yep. I'll go find him after I grab a drink."

Vidya nods, giving my arm a gentle squeeze before turning and threading back through the kitchen. Brooke passes Vidya on her way by and strolls up to stand beside me. Brooke plants her hands on her hips, studying the impressive selection of high-end liquor on the counter. Brendan went all out tonight on a luxe spread, alcohol included. It helps that he just made junior partner at his law firm and is feeling extra flush.

Brooke and I both proceed to pretend the other person isn't there. It's one of the less combative games we play, and also the least fun. She wordlessly reaches around me and grabs the indigo bottle of Empress 1908, dumping a generous amount into her ice-filled highball glass. Once she slides down the counter to grab some mixer, I move over and take the bottle of Macallan, pouring it into my glass tumbler straight-up. A few steps away, Brooke cracks open a can of organic tonic and mixes it with the gin, finishing it off with two lime wedges.

Then she turns to me, clutching her violet-pink cocktail with a smirk, and a new game begins.

"This outfit up to your standards, Hollis?"

Oh, it is. And then some.

Her dress dips low in the front and the hemline hits at mid-thigh, drawing attention to her toned legs. There's a lot of skin showing in general. It's right on the line between sexy and scandalous—probably leaning to the latter—and it causes a stirring below my waist that I know can't ever be satisfied.

I keep my eyes fixed on Brooke's because letting them drift any lower will result in a surefire reaction from me, and not one that is appropriate.

Maintaining a neutral expression, I give a half-shrug. "Passable."

It's more than passable. I know it. She knows it. Everyone here knows it.

"Wish I could say the same about you." Brooke's glossy pink lips tug into a smirk.

Adding to the list of things that I know? This is a massive lie. I can read women like a second language, and Brooke is absolutely attracted to me—she just hates my guts. But that's by design. It's a feature, not a flaw. I've gone out of my way over the years to ensure she does, because it makes keeping my hands to myself that much easier.

"Oh, Brooke." I tsk. "You don't need to lie."

"Keep dreaming, Dean."

I will, unfortunately.

It is a universally acknowledged fact that I am not relationship material. And it's equally understood that your best friend's little sister is not an acceptable choice for a fling, which is all I can offer anyone. In theory, I made peace with that nine years ago, after learning the hottest girl I'd ever seen was my best friend's little sister. In reality, it's not that cut and dry. Knowing I can't have Brooke makes me want her that much more.

"No date?" I take a sip of scotch, raising my eyebrows. Brooke makes a face, because we both know she's here with her friends. In accordance with my policy to keep her at arms' length, I'm being a dick.

"Where's yours?" She counters.

"I don't do dates."

"Of course you don't."

After having been put through the mental ringer earlier, I'm not as quick on my feet as usual, so I just shrug. When I fail to lob another comeback, Brooke scoffs quietly and saunters away. I stand, watching the sway of her hips until she disappears into the living room. Even the way she moves makes me think of other, wholly indecent scenarios. Like her body beneath mine. Naked.

I'm so fucked.

From within my suit pocket, my phone vibrates. I pull it out, expecting to find a message from one of the handful of women I see semi-regularly. While a distraction like that could be useful right now in theory, my interest level in that is at a negative four. The only woman I want in my bed tonight is the one who just walked away.

Instead, I glance down to find two texts from Joshua, both sent nine minutes ago, and three missed calls, two minutes after that. My phone is set to vibrate and I didn't even notice them come through, probably because I was distracted by Brooke's presence from the moment I walked in.

Joshua: 911. Need you to send some money ASAP.

Joshua: I'll pay you back, Dean. I swear. Call me. It's an emergency.

My stomach clenches, vision tunneling as the party around me fades into the background. It's been awhile since I've received a crisis message like this from Joshua. While I've been doing my part to keep him out of my sphere of influence within the gambling world, ensuring anyone I deal with turns him away, it seems he's managed to get himself in trouble with someone else.

I guess hoping for him to stay in recovery was too much to ask of the universe. Not that I really had high hopes to begin with.

Dean: How much?

I hit send, waiting. The conversation screen remains still, no telltale grey bubbles popping up to indicate he's composing a reply. I add to my previous message, nudging him for a response.

Dean: I can send it now, but I need an amount.

Seconds tick by. No response. My mind is leaping from one disastrous scenario to the next. I want to hop into my car and track him down, but I have no idea where he is. Knowing Joshua, he could be anywhere in the greater Los Angeles area. Hell, he could be in the next state. It's happened before, usually when drugs and/or alcohol enter the mix.

Goddamnit.

I set my drink on the counter and bolt down the hall for the master bedroom, shutting the door behind me to muffle the background noise. Navigating to Joshua's contact in my phone, I select his number and pray, holding my breath. One ring turns into five. He doesn't answer my call.

Nervous energy shoots through me and I begin to pace the small bedroom in half-circles, unable to stand still. I make a path from one nightstand to the other, going back and forth, hitting redial over and over again. It keeps ringing through to voicemail. I stare at the screen, mentally running through the list of possible explanations for Joshua's failure to answer—drunk, phone taken to pay off a debt... or dead.

The ever-present possibility of the last one haunts me all the time.

Especially when I'm the one who taught him how to gamble in the first place.

After my sixth attempt to reach him, a text message pops up on my screen.

Joshua: Sorry about that, big bro. Overreacted a little.

Another wave of emotions hits me. I'm not sure whether I'm irritated or relieved. Overreacted a little? His wording made it sound as though dismemberment was imminent. Despite his dismal luck in games of chance and his apparent lack of common sense, Joshua has been fortunate enough to keep all his fingers and toes up until this point, even after pissing off some of the biggest bookies in town. Repeatedly.

Largely because I always bail him out, just like he knows I will.

Jaw clenched, I quickly write him back.

Dean: You sure?

Joshua: Yup. Already left. Nadine just picked me up. All good now. Go enjoy your evening.

Nadine is his on-again, off-again girlfriend, booty call, fuck buddy, or something else I don't quite understand. I don't understand because they've been together for years and Joshua still can't explain their relationship to me. I'm also not clear whether she's a good or bad influence on him. Guessing bad, given the generally disastrous state of his life, but maybe that's not fair to say. After all, I enable him too.

But the fact that Josh escaped a high-alert situation so quickly raises major red flags. Not just red flags—gargantuan scarlet billboards. He probably put up something valuable as collateral.

Like himself.

I swallow the gravel in my throat, pacing the room with my eyes glued to the screen. My first instinct is to push the subject and probe further, but I know Josh will dodge the issue via text. I'm going to have to show up at his place tomorrow and drag the truth out of him. Maybe I should plant a GPS tracker on his car while I'm there.

I'm still looking down when I plow right into someone half my size.

Someone brunette, someone curvy....

Brooke.

Hmm...

PS: it is the same Fitz as Playmaker. Maybe Gabe will show up too, who knows. He'd be 23 or 24 here, and he's 25 in Playmaker.

PPS: Dean is 30; Brooke is 25.