flew down the interstate toward Trouble. The woman next to him was playing with fire. She kept rubbing his thigh and threading her fingers through his hair. Every slight touch, every small smile and his gut tightened until he felt like his muscles were about to shatter. It was damn painful and his balls felt like they were going to explode. The second she'd stepped in the car she'd sealed her fate. R.J. told himself to keep his hands off her, but screw that. She should have known to stay away from him and she hadn't. He only had so much will power and his had snapped. Talking about Trent had opened up that old wound that always oozed for days. His brother's death had altered their family forever. He hated dealing with it. Hated remembering the pain and the unanswered questions of why this had happened to them. Why Trent had to be the one whose bones had been infected with rare tumors. Why R.J. had to sit back helplessly while his younger brother had fought for his life. And lost. Every year he dreaded this.
