32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

Toby

" W hen Leo said he sent you to the cabin, I didn't expect you'd be gone so long I'd actually miss your ass."

Mac's snicker comes across the line and almost makes me feel homesick.

"I knew you liked my ass," I say with a chuckle.

" Pffft, nice try, limp waffle." He snorts into the receiver. "Got me checking the weather like an old-ass man. Feeling like I gotta eat dinner at four so I can be in bed by eight."

I laugh at that and the tapping I hear coming from the background. I lounge on the couch, right where I ate Anna out for breakfast this morning. "You are old, Mackie."

"You're older than me," Mac huffs, unamused. "I'm not old."

Snorting, I run my hands through my beard and stare up at the ceiling, my phone pressed to my ear.

"You're quiet. That's weird. Has Anna given you a hard time?"

The mention of her has my eyes narrowing and my chest tightening. "Why?"

"Because you two are like fucking badgers," Mac comments, unmoved by my clipped tone. "Constantly badgering each other."

Oh. Right .

"It's fine," I mutter.

The line goes silent. Even the tapping of Mac's drum stick against whatever nearby surface pauses and I feel a nerve twinge in my gut.

"Dude. Spit it out," Mac says into the phone.

I huff. "There's nothing to spit out."

"Ohhhh, but there is. I can tell. So tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me."

I roll my eyes and shift so that I'm sitting back up, my hands rubbing across my face. "She spends all day in the fucking room." Not a lie. "That's weird, right?"

"So weird that woman has to work." It's like I can hear his eye roll over the line. "Maybe if you weren't such a wet noodle, her job would be easier and she'd hate you less."

I sigh and swipe my damp hands over my thighs. "Someone's gotta be the actual rock star around here," I comment on a scoff.

It's not lost on me that I'm deflecting most of his questions with humor. I may be as close to sober as I have been since I was fifteen, but I'm still me under all the bullshit.

The me I know is an asshole.

"Pretty sure acting a fool on a regular is not what makes us rock stars." The tapping on his end is back, the sharp tick echoing over the line. "Some of us wanna live past forty."

"You're just saying that because you want some dick outta life."

Mac snorts. "You'd be correct, good sir. Maybe even being official . Exclusive. One and only. Someday. "

An ache blossoms inside my chest. "Whatever the hell that means."

"You don't wanna know." Mac laughs, but it's tight. Almost humorless. "It's a thing."

Rambling is what I would consider the next few minutes of the call with my bandmate, but I spend most of the time only half listening to the man tell me what his perfect life partner would be like. His ideal proposal. His destination dreams.

"Oh! Tyro just walked in. I gotta go."

Because the other half of me is so focused on the gnawing pang in my chest that—

No.

"Call you tomorrow, bro."

Happily ever afters and all that other bullshit that Mac's dreaming about is nowhere in the cards for me. Not my thing. Not my desire.

I literally shake my head to wipe away the thoughts and stand, the call long ago ended.

That kinda shit requires a relationship first and I don't know how to do those.

But what I do know how to do is fuck.

And I know exactly where I can find a willing participant to work out my frustrations on.

"Anna!"