Instead of hightailing it back to the airport, I went to my expensive hotel room for one and raided the minibar. After emptying three minibottles of Johnny Walker Black into a tumbler, I knocked half of it back, the burn seizing my throat.
I looked longingly at the chips and nuts, but felt too nauseated to even go there.
Fuck. I paced the length of the room, trying to think straight, tugging my hair until it felt like it was going to come out at the roots.
Who the hell did I think I was in this new body? I was still a fucking joke, that’s who.
There was Charli, all put together, perfect for an afternoon out with some equally as perfect dude. Then there was me, sauntering up to the door, a ring burning a gaping hole in my pocket and my heart barreling through my chest with my need to sayI love you.
I tipped the glass to my lips and tossed back the rest, then slammed the empty tumbler back on the table. Glass shattered and splintered all over my fingers, sending blood trickling out of cuts and fissures.
Like my heart. Except blood was pouring out there.
I shook my hand like an animal as blood dripped on the table, mixing with ... tears?
Holy shit, was I crying? I was so freaking emotional, as crazy as a teenage girl with PMS, I didn’t even register tears dripping down my face.
I went to the bathroom and washed my hand, wrapping it tight in a towel, and went back to the minibar. I shoved a few bottles to the side, sorting through them to find the perfect thing.
Absolut? Nah.
Cognac? Nope.
Tequila? A possibility.
Red wine? That’s the ticket.
With my non-injured hand, I picked up the bottle, and of course it reminded me of her. Charli loved her wine. I’d learned over the last few months that a dry cabernet was the way to her heart.
I turned the cap on the tiny bottle, heard the safety seal pop, and took a long whiff. If I tried harder, I could almost smell her breath, cabernet mixed with peppermint. I drained the wine, not even caring anymore what I drank. I just needed to feel numb.
When I dropped on the sofa, something jabbed into my thigh—the ring—and I realized I was nowhere near numb enough. So I got up and snatched the other bottle of red from the minibar and emptied it too, then sulked back into the sofa.
The room spun around me. The painting above the bed looked crooked, and the mirror by the door resembled one of those fat mirrors in a fun house. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and reprimanded my feeble, stupid brain.
Eventually, my eyes dried, my throat clogged, and my breathing was shallow, almost nonexistent. I was a sorry excuse for a man when the phone rang.
I heard it, but didn’t see it, a loud shrill in my already aching head. When it stopped and started again, I forced myself up and found the phone next to the bed.
“Hello?”
“Sir, this is Chester at the front desk. I have a young woman here who’s demanding to know your room number. Ms. Richards.”
Of course she would know where to find me. This was my place, sometimesourplace when I came to visit. We’d spend a night in a hotel, pretending to be on vacation when all we were doing was borrowing minutes.
Actually, I was stealing them.
“Would you like to speak with her?” the front-desk guy asked.
I’d already forgotten his name, my head was such a clouded, confused mess.
“Um, yeah.”
A shuffling sounded through the phone before her voice came on the line.
“Lay, listen to me, give me a minute to explain. Let me come up.”
Her words were as clogged as mine. I could hear tears in her throat.
