BANG.
My heart skyrockets in my chest, causing me to jump when someone hits the wall between the penthouse and my suite.
“Shut up in there! We’re trying to sleep!”
I stop crying for a nanosecond, and I’m off again. My heart’s shattering into tiny splinters, and not one person seems to care.
My entire world has changed.
My routine.
The life I was living.
All gone.
I sob so loudly that I’m sure Mary-Ann in reception can hear me.
Taking another guzzle from the vodka bottle, I blow my nose repulsively into a tissue.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The banging causes me to jump again, but this time it’s on my door.
Somehow, I manage to stumble to my feet and take the bottle of vodka with me, trying incredibly hard not to spill the precious beverage. I’m still sobbing when I open the door, and the vision before me makes my heart stutter and then thud. I open and close my eyes a few times, trying to bring them into focus. Whether it’s from the crying or the copious amounts of alcohol, I can’t see properly.
Standing before me is a god of a man, wearing black boxer briefs and a black tank top. He’s ridiculously muscular, with full-sleeve tattoos covering those bulging arms. A light stubble covers his jawline, and his hair’s a disheveled mess of brown with blond highlights that, in my drunken state, I want to rush forward and run my hands through. Then I see his eyes, and I’m sure I stumble slightly on the spot. I’ve never seen such piercing, blue luminous eyes before, and I know I could get lost in them, even if only for a moment.
My crying subsides as this specimen before me looks at me with narrowed eyes while rubbing his chin. “Hey, um… we have a huge gig tomorrow, and even though we are the kings of rock, we still need ‘some’ sleep,” he says, using his fingers to air quote. This cross between Chris Hemsworth and Jared Leto of a man smirks while looking me up and down.
His actions cause me to start crying again, so I bring the bottle of vodka up to my lips and take another gulp.
The guy looking back at me is amazingly beautiful, but all he cares about is some gig. In contrast, I’m standing here in my pajamas with messy hair, a blotchy face, and an unfixable broken heart.
Who the heck is he anyway?
He watches as I take four large gulps of the scorching, fiery liquid that burns my throat all the way down. My face scrunches after every mouthful, and he smirks while I angrily swipe the tears away from my cheeks.
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad. Can it?” he asks.
Right, so he thinks my state of disarray is funny.
Who do you think you are?
“When your boyfriend of four years breaks up with you, kicks you out of your own home, and makes you leave your doggie best friend behind on Valentine’s Day? Yes, itcanactually be ‘that bad,’” I exclaim and use air quotes back to him. As I turn around, I stumble but quickly right myself and walk back into the suite. Flopping onto the couch, I sigh and take another gulp of the nearly empty bottle of vodka. Once the door clicks shut, I lean back into the cushions, dizzy, and close my eyes.
Suddenly, I feel a weight shift beside me, and I fling open my eyes to the god sitting next to me with a look of concern etched on his face and his hand scratching at his chin.
Sighing again, I flop my head back to rest on the couch.
“He dumped you on Valentine’s Day? That’s pretty fucking low.” He takes the bottle of vodka from my hand without permission, and I look at him with my brows furrowed. I’m too caught up in my alcohol-induced haze to say anything as he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks the remainder.
Holy heck! This man is gorgeous!
I inadvertently lick my lips, thinking I could lick the remaining alcohol off his. Shaking my head, I try to refocus, and he chuckles, placing the empty bottle between us. Then, for no reason, I begin to cry again, and his eyes widen as if he’s paralyzed with fear.
