He’s already running for the door.
Christian is a man who can’t be pushed. When he’s ready, he’ll talk. Otherwise, it’s not up to me or anyone else. He’s always been that way, so to push is only ever a bad idea. I can’t afford pushing Christian, not when he’s this close again. Not when he’s trying to prove himself to the both of us.
He will talk when he’s ready,I tell myself.
CHAPTER 10
Christian
Willow Springs is a quiet place on Tuesday nights, which is good for my head. It has been too loud, and I can’t shut it off. There is no volume dial I can reach or a button I can slam my fist on to turn it off.
It’s me and whatever exists in my brain.
I hold the jar in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around it as I push open the door of The Brew Room. It’s ten o’clock and dark, and the chatter is low inside the dimly lit bar.
I wanted to kiss her this morning and I couldn’t. I choked. Instead, I ran away and went to the gym. I had lunch with the guys and Princess Grace tagged along with Julian. I drove around aimlessly, avoiding the house at all costs. I even went back to the gym for a shower, only after a boxing session with Julian.
It’s been…a weird day.
I was punching the mitts with my gloves, and I could have sworn there was a hole in them by the time I finished. Julianjust looked at me and the arch of his brow silently asked,You good?
I sniffed and nodded. And kept punching, sweating it off.
Funny, isn’t it? Just fine to eat her out on her floor and let her go down on me in the guest room, but I can’t kiss her after making her breakfast and dancing to one of our songs?
I’m fucked in the head. I want Lana more than anything—anything. More than the drugs, the alcohol—anything. From the moment I met Lana, I knew she’d become the air I’d breathe. She did—sheis.
I’m suffocating under this dark cloud of shame, pushing me toward bad decisions. After pulling it out of my hoodie, I put the jar on the bar and take a seat on the creaky, wooden stool, feeling the pain in my muscles and bones after the day I’ve had of punishing workouts. I sit back and stare at the jar—at all the chips I’ve collected thrown into it.
“What can I get you, son?”
I nod to myself. Again and again. “I’ll, uh… Just tequila. Neat.”
The bartender dips his chin and grabs a glass to pour into. I just stare at all those chips and think about the things I’ve done as the liquid falls.
My first real drink, I was eighteen. Underage high school students always have beer first, I think. I did at sixteen, but it was at eighteen that my father poured me a drink and told me to sit with him while he went over all the ways I’ve disappointed him.
I didn’t know that day would lead to all of this.
I didn’t know that sometimes it’s genetics but you tell yourself you’re better than that anyway.
I was fine, I always told myself that. I got through the daywith giant gulps that I learned could get me drunker faster. Something about drinking too fast and it getting to your head, I don’t know.
Then my father drank more and more, and I witnessed his downfall the way I’d witnessed his rise. I don’t think I’ve ever risen. The taller I felt, the lower I was going, the harder I was falling into my rock bottom.
Now I have a glass with two fingers of tequila in front of me, and I wrap my hand around the crystal. I swirl it around, watching it tornado against the glass, and wonder what it would taste like. I would hate it—the taste and how it would make me feel.
I would hate it, right?
Yes, I’d hate it. I’d hate what it would do to me if I drink it and all the things I would lose if I did. I can’t do it.
But what would it taste like? Would it taste like the safety of a home or would it taste like I’m ruining my life? Would it taste like I should be home with Lana or would it taste like she doesn’t deserve me so what’s the point?
I bring the glass to my nose. Just a quick sniff. And it smells like doom.
“You better not drink that, kid.”
I huff a laugh, my finger tracing the rim of the glass. “I’m not going to, Terrance.”
