Burke tries to cut in. “Damn, boys. Can we not go full testosterone contest tonight?”
“Tell that to lover boy,” I mutter.
“I’m just saying—” Torres starts.
“Don’t.” I cut him off. My voice is steel.
He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, Kingston. Didn’t realise she was off-limits.”
“She’s not mine,” I say.
Lie.
“She can do whatever the fuck she wants,” I add.
Lie.
“She just doesn’t like boys.”
Truth.
The bottle makes another round. The fire crackles. My head’s spinning. Everything’s louder now—the laughter, the static, the thud of boots on gravel but it’s still not loud enough to drown her out.
That smile. That laugh. That soft look she gave him like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
I close my eyes.
I see her in my shirt, syrup dripping down her thighs, whispering my name like it meant something.
I open them again and all I see is fire.
Jordan throws something at Torres. A joke about getting laid. Someone laughs. Someone else makes a bet.
I don’t hear it because the only thing I’m hearing is the memory of her voice in my ear when she said: “Promise me you’ll come back.”
And mine: “I can’t promise you that.”
Because I knew.
I fucking knew even then?—
I’d never survive her falling for someone else.
Not when I already gave her my war-wrecked, bleeding soul.
“You good, man?”
Burke again.
I look at him.
Say nothing.
Take the bottle and drink ‘til the stars blur.
The bottle’s half gone and I still don’t feel it.
Not enough.
