All I had was a desire to be left the fuck alone.
I didn’t want to be checkedon.
I didn’t want to be nagged.
And I certainly didn’t want to be asked how I was feeling, something I knew would be coming soon.
Four nights—that was how long I’d been in this hotel, and nothing had changed.
Maybe while Sky was here, the thoughts paused for a bit. The questions halted rather than taking their usual laps around my brain. At least during the hours she was awake and filled the silence in the room.
Shit, I didn’t know why, but things felt easier when she was here.
She gave me something to focus on.
Something beautiful to look at, to listen to, to admire. And then the moment she walked out the door for the second time, the loudness returned. Enough so that I wanted to throw a fucking glass at the handle and lock.
I had.
More than once.
But I wouldn’t toss this tumbler. The one half filled with whiskey. I needed this one. My buzz was just starting to peak, and I needed it to come on stronger. I needed my fingers to stay wrapped around the thick glass and for it to only be a short commute to my mouth.
Especially as I stared at my phone, an article on the screen. It had come in as a Google alert—the first since the San Antonio opening of Horned, which had happened last night. I was sure, within the next few hours, there would be several more just like it, reviewing the restaurant.
It wasn’t the description of the food that stood out or the construction and decoration of the interior that had cost us well over a million.
It was the two lines near the very bottom that my eyes continuously reread.
Walker Weston, founder and executive chef of the Weston brand, was noticeably absent from the grand opening of the company’s first solo venture of Horned—a restaurant previously started in Laguna Beach, California, by a separate owner and bought out by the Westons. When queried, Walker was unavailable to comment or answer our questions about the food sources and recipes used in this location and the future locations of Horned.
The publication—the most followed food and beverage resource in all of Texas—had reached out, their questions currently in my email. A follow-up was also sent to my assistant and marked high priority by her.
I hadn’t replied.
Because I didn’t have it in me.
And because I didn’t have any fucks to give.
The article was overtaken by an incoming call, the screen showing Colson’s name, number, and a picture of him.
Was this his fourth call? Fifth? I’d lost track.
I sent his ass to voicemail.
Colson
You’ve got to be kidding me …
I’d seen enough—from him, from the article, from everything.
I set my cell down and immediately brought the booze up to my lips, extending my legs onto the coffee table and crossing them. My eyes then closed as I rested my head on the cushion behind me.
Why was sleep so far away?
Why couldn’t I drink myself to the point where I’d pass out?
Where was Sky when I fucking needed her?
