“I WAS A LITTLE WORRIED when you told me to come over today that you’d lost control of your balls, but this?” Becks asks, as he takes a measured look at the empty beach around us. “This is just what the doctor ordered.”

“Where’s the faith, brother?” I slide a glance over to him behind my sunglasses. “Can you see me at a baby shower?” I ask. He snorts in response. “I assure you my balls are firmly attached. There is no way in hell I’m setting foot anywhere near the house right now.” I mock-shiver at the thought of all those women who’d gladly leave lipstick on my cheek.

“A whole new definition for the estrogen vortex.”

“Damn straight.” I reach over and tap the neck of my beer against his. “And not in a good way.”

“And for that reason alone, I think the baby’s a girl,” he says with a laugh, causing me to grunt at his logic. “Dude, you’ve played women for so damn long, it’d be funny as fuck and serve you right to watch one play you for the rest of your life.” He holds up his pinkie telling me if we had a little girl, I’ll be wrapped around her finger. Fucker’s probably right, but I’m not telling him that. Besides, the smarmy grin on his face is wide enough to earn the bottle top I throw at him.

“No one is playing me. That you can be sure of.” I tip my bottle to my lips, as Becks laughs long and hard at the words he knows are a lie.

“I don’t think you have any idea what’s about to hit you, brother.”

He’s right. I have no fucking clue. Zip. Zero. Zilch. All I know is the closer the due date gets the more I feel like I haven’t had enough time to get ready for it. It? More like a complete overhaul of our life. Scary fucking shit.

“So, how are you doing with all of this?”

“Shit’s getting real,” I muse with a slow nod of my head.

“Considering there’s a baby shower up at the house right now with women dressing themselves in toilet paper—in some ritual I pray I never understand—and talking about crowning that has nothing to do with the kind a king wears . . . and diapers . . . yeah, it’s definitely real. But uh, nice try, Wood. You never answered my question.”

“I’m good.” Back off, Daniels.

“We’ve known each other how long?” he asks, and I know he’s going in for the kill here. I just wish I knew what the fuck he’s hunting for, so instead of giving him the answer he already knows, I just concentrate on peeling the label on my beer bottle.

“Pussy,” he mutters under his breath. Baiting me. Fueling a fire I’d rather not light.

“What’s your bag, Becks? You want to know that this whole baby thing scares the shit out of me? That it’s fucking with my head?” I pick up a shell and huck it at a pile of seaweed to the right of me. “Feel better, now?”

I want to shove up and walk down to the water, get the hell away from him, and yet he knows me well enough that if I do, then he’s gotten under my skin. Pressed the buttons he’s been waiting to push.

How the fuck do I explain that everything already feels the same and so goddamn different, and yet I wouldn’t want to change it even if I could? He’d be bringing out the damn straight jacket.

“Me feel better? No.” He chuckles, grating on every nerve. “But I think you do.” I glare at him from behind my lenses. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” I snap. Leave the shit I don’t want to talk about alone. But the silence eats at me, taunts me to speak. I can trust Becks; I know I can. Yet as the words form, I choke on them. Man the fuck up, Donavan. “Yes. Fuck. I don’t know.”

“Well, that simplifies things,” he teases, trying to draw a laugh out of me.

I take my hat off, scrub a hand through my hair, and put it back on to buy some time. “I’m having a kid, Becks. And all of it’s scary as shit. Diapers and futures and expectations and . . . I don’t know what else, but I’m sure I’m missing a million other things. What the fuck qualifies me to be a dad? Not just any dad, but a good one? I mean, look at my fucked-up childhood. It’s all I know. How in the hell do I know when I’m stressed and tired that I’m not going to revert to the only thing I’ve ever known?” I end the question, my voice almost a shout, and realize everything I just said.

Have another beer, Donavan. You sound like a sap.

Becks laughs. And not just any kind of laugh but a chiding chuckle that scrapes on my nerves like 60-grit sandpaper.

“Thank God! It’s about damn time you start acting like you’re freaking out because sure as shit I’d be too. Look, no one qualifies to be a good parent. You just kind of learn as you go, mistakes and all.” He shrugs. “And as for the last one . . . dude, look how you are with the boys at The House. You’d never hurt them. It’s not in your makeup regardless of the fucked-up shit you grew up with.”

Hearing his words I nod my head, finding some relief that the shit that’s been bouncing around in my head is normal. But my normal and Becks’s normal growing up are polar opposites. So while I appreciate the sentiment, it doesn’t stop the freight train of fear I’m going to fail epically at this parenting shit. That Rylee will be so head over heels in love with the baby she’ll forget me. That I have the same blood running through my veins as my mother who’d had no regard for me. That I have the same blood running through my veins as my father who hadn’t stuck around.

“Dude, it’s totally normal to be freaked,” he says, as I open the cooler and grab another beer to drink away my stupidity. “You’ll fuck up sometimes, but that’s how it is. There’s no manual on how to be a good dad . . . you learn as you go. Kind of like the first time you had sex. Practice makes perfect type of thing.”

I laugh. Fucking Becks. He’s the only person I know who could compare parenting to sex, and I’d completely understand the parallel. He gets me.

“And sex? Now that’s something I’ve practiced a lot.”

“By the look of Rylee’s belly, I think you finally mastered that skill. So, see? No need to worry. You’ve got this.”

“Damn.” The word falls from my mouth as images of earlier today flood my mind. I was supposed to be moving the couch in the great room to make space for the rental tables and chairs being delivered for the shower. Rather, I found myself looking down at Ry’s cheeks hollowing out as she sucked me off. The look in her eyes and smirk on her lips as she ran my slick cock up through the V of her cleavage until it met the sweetness of her wet mouth. My balls tighten remembering how her lips looked stretched around me when she teased my tip before sliding it back down again.

“That good, huh?” Becks asks, dragging me from the images of my hot wife.

“Fucking perfection.” It’s futile to fight the smug grin on my lips.

“So, is it true then?” I glance over to Becks, my beer now stopped halfway to my lips as I wait for him to explain. “That pregnant women are really that horny?”

My eyes flicker back toward the house at our backs. Laughter from the estrogen invasion floats down to us and I nod my head. “Brother, let’s just say that voodoo doesn’t hold a fucking candle to pregnant pussy.”

“No shit?”

“Nympho.” I draw the word out.

The look on his face right now—the raised eyebrows, slow nod of his head, slack jaw—is classic. “Damn. Just damn.”

“You have no idea,” I say with a laugh. “Shit. All the guys were warning me about hormones and mood swings, and I’m sitting over here with a cat-ate-the-canary grin on my face because pussy is my friend. Dude, the only pregnancy craving she’s having is for my cock, and I’m more than willing to help her out.”

“You lucky bastard.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to . . .” His voice trails off but I can hear the amusement in his tone. “Never mind . . .”

“Finish what you were going to say, Daniels.”

“Well, I was going to say, aren’t you afraid all that sex is going to hurt the baby—poke it in the head or something? But then I forgot you’re only about three inches long so there’s no need to worry about that.” He stifles the chuckle.

“Fucker.” It’s my go-to comment with him and even with the dig, I can’t help but laugh because I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Besides, I could use the distraction since I keep questioning whether I should have made the call to my private investigator, Kelly, this week.

Ball’s already rolling. Too late to stop it now.

I know nothing good can come from it. No happy endings to be had in this situation. In fact, I’m sure it’ll fuck me up before it makes me better. But maybe, just maybe, I can lay this one last thing to rest. Close this final circle before the baby comes and move on.

Full circles and shit.

At least once this one’s linked together; the goddamn ghosts can just chase each other over and over like a hamster on a wheel while I’m putting the pedal to the metal one hundred miles per hour in the opposite direction.

“Dude,” Becks says, pulling me from my thoughts, “you need to take advantage of the sex while you can because after the baby comes, you won’t be getting any for a while.”

“So I’ve heard,” I groan. How I’m going to go from my wife being a nympho to a nun is not lost on me. “Changes, man. They just keep happening. One day I’m single, the next I’m getting married, and now I’m about to have a baby. How the fuck did that happen?” Despite my words, the smile is wide on my face.

“Not sure how you found a woman who’s willing to put up with your crap but she deserves a damn medal for it.”

“Thanks for the support.” I tip my beer his way in a cheers motion.

“Always. That’s what I’m here for . . . but with all of these changes happening, I need to ask you, what’s gotten under your skin? Something’s up with you and I know you well enough to know it’s more than what you’ve just said.”

Here we go again. Let the Becks psych evaluation begin.

I refuse to look at him, not wanting him to know I’m not okay. That this banter is all a front because my head feels like it’s been put in a blender: too much, too goddamn fast, with too many doubts, and too many unknowns. My fucking past that never goes completely away.

Goddamn ghosts.

“Colton?” he goads.

My beer stops midway to my mouth as irritation fires anew and sarcasm becomes my friend. “Are you asking as my crew chief, my best friend, or my shrink?”

“I’ve got lifetime privileges for two of the three, so does it really matter?”

Fuck. He’s got me there. Why is he pushing the goddamn issue? Does he really want to know the truth? Because I sure as fuck would rather stick my head in the sand. Ignorance is bliss and all that shit.

“I’ll get the job done. No worries there,” I say way too easily and immediately curse myself because Becks will see right through that response in a heartbeat. I just wonder if he’s going to let sleeping dogs lie or if he’s going to jingle the leash so they come out to play.

“Ah . . .” he says, drawing the sound out. “But you forget, I do worry. It’s my job. You’ve got a lot of shit going on, and I need your head straight before you even board a plane to the Grand Prix.”

“Jesus Christ, Becks. Always worried about the track. Well, there’s other shit to life besides the goddamn track!” I snap at him, pissed he knows just what to say to set me off and at the same time hating that he’s right.

Baited hook? Meet line and sinker.

Motherfucker. You’d think by now I’d be immune to Becks pushing buttons, and yet every damn time I react on cue like a puppet.

“No worries. My head will be just fine,” I say, trying to gain some traction. “You satisfied?”

“You think I care about the fucking track, Donavan? You think racing rules my every thought? No. Not hardly. What does though is having to pick up a phone and call your wife who’s nine months pregnant and tell her I put you in a car knowing you had a fucked-up head, that you crashed and died because you were distracted and couldn’t focus on the task at hand. Now that? That’s what I worry about . . . so you can take out whatever it is you don’t want me to know and tell me I’m a selfish asshole for thinking about racing. What I really want to know is that your head is in the goddamn game enough that I don’t have to watch some medic put you in a fucking body bag because you can’t focus and won’t tell anyone why. Call me selfish, call me whatever the fuck you want to . . . talk to me, don’t talk to me . . . Christ . . . just make sure you’re good to go so that doesn’t happen.” And then in perfect Beckett fashion, he ends his tirade as quick as he starts it.