“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
That was a great idea. Truly.
If I was even remotely concerned with self-preservation.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go fuck that blonde with the tits. Get me another drink, or four.”
She was standing against the bar, pretending to be perfectly casual. Her eyes widened as I approached, and she gestured to the shot glasses lined up beside her. I downed two, and two more, and another two. I inclined my head toward the hall, and tipped back the last two shot glasses.
Precisely enough to feel nothing.
“You down?”
“I’m Melan—”
I pressed my finger to her lips and shook my head. “Even if I knew how to care, I wouldn’t.”
She narrowed her eyes at me for a moment, but grabbed my hand and led the way. She knew the drill.
The alcohol was moving through my system quickly, and my hold on the horizon loosened. She tightened her grip on my hand and yanked me through a doorway. She was small but that didn’t stop her from slamming me against the wall, and promptly rubbing her silicon investments all over me. Her fingers were clammy and skeleton-thin, and they went straight to my crotch.
I closed my eyes, not wanting to remember anything about her.
This was the empty, soulless existence I deserved, the one that would never know love or happiness or hope. I wanted to lose myself in that. I wanted to fuck a random woman and not care, not feel an ounce of longing for Tiel. I wanted to cut myself off from the love she stitched into my cells and I wanted to prove that I didn’t need that shit.
And because it wasn’t enough to simply drown in my own self-loathing, I pulled out my phone and fired off several texts to Tiel.
22:54 Sam:if something is broken
22:54 Sam:you fix that shit
22:55 Sam:you don’t throw it the fuck away
22:56 Tiel:I don’t want to throw anything away.
22:56 Tiel:where are you? can we talk?
22:57 Sam:im very busy needing space
I wanted to crawl back to her, promise that she was the one—theonlyone—and beg her to understand that I fucked up with Magnolia and it would never, ever happen again.
The fake blonde pulled at the front of my trousers with a fury, unconcerned with my dick’s wholly flaccid state, and no part of me wanted this. I hated what I’d done, and if it were possible, I hated myself even more. There wasn’t a shred of arousal in me, but she continued stroking and jerking over my clothes while whispering filthy clichés about being a naughty girl and deserving a punishment.
Then she called me Daddy, and it turned my stomach. Ihadto stop this.
The acidic burn of alcohol and carrot-celery-honey juice and misery bubbled up my throat as I pushed her away. I choked it back for a moment, but another wave hit, and I vomited all over her.
And I meanallover her.
The first spurt hit her hair, and then her head snapped up to take the next two on her chest and dress. When it finally stopped, she gazed at the wreckage, horrified, and muttered something about my pathetic whiskey dick. She ran out crying, and left me alone in a puddle of puke.
Amazingly, only my shoes took the hit, and though I’d never wear them again, I needed just a couple of minutes to clean up before stumbling down the hallway toward Riley.
He was seated in a deep leather chair, his ankle crossed over his knee while he tapped his beer bottle against the armrest. I dropped beside him and signaled to the waitress. Maybe she could find me some flat cola. Or ginger ale.
I still felt like shit and wanted to crawl into bed more than I wanted my next breath. Cold sweat was running down my back, and I swore my organs were rattling against my bones.
“You didn’t fuck her,” he snapped, tearing my phone from my hands and making a show of wiping it clean. “You might be the biggest asshole in the universe right now, but you didn’t fuck her.”
