To do the dance where we looked for love in all the wrong places.
I swallowed another painful knife, thinkin’ nothing about this woman, or any woman, would be satisfying to me ever again.
Not after her.
Not after my whiskey girl.
She’d left her mark, inked deeper than any tattoo on my fucking soul.
The only woman’s love I wanted, hell, needed—wouldeverneed—was Augusta Belle’s.
Just as the chick with the faux-pout was about to tackle the buckle of my belt, I shot out of the booth, careful not to hurt her as I pulled her up off the floor, helping her straighten her dress for a minute before cupping her face with my palm, “You’re better than that. We both are.”
And before she could throw her drink all over me, I was halfway across the bar, aiming for the cool night air of Jackson and the hotel where my girl was waiting, cuddled up in bed. Where I could hold her and be the man I should have been a few hours ago.
Shame and guilt ate me up on the few blocks back to the hotel, but I’d had some sort of fucked-up realization in that bar.
I’d take what Augusta Belle and I had on our worst days over any kind of shit I could have with anyone else.
There was no one else.
Never had been.
I’d been loyal from the start, and truth be told, I’d only been devastated at the thought of her keeping something from me for so long when I’d been an open book with her. I’d never had a thing to hide, but that didn’t mean she didn’t hold things close to her heart for her own reasons. That didn’t mean I had a right to take those things away just because I wanted them. Just because I thought I was ready. If anyone knew me better than I did, it was Augusta Belle Branson, and if she was keeping something close, there was probably a reason for it.
I pushed through the doors of the hotel, nodding at the midnight porter as I strode through the lobby, the bittersweet taste the whiskey left on my tongue only made worse when I reached the door of our room, tapping once before waving the keycard and stepping in.
The room was dark.
Every corner silent.
I flicked on the light, striding to the bathroom to find it empty.
My eyes did a quick scan, noticing for the first time that her backpack was gone.
“Fuck,” I breathed, eyes wild as I cast around the room for my keys.
I’d left them on the table near the bed, and now they were gone, replaced by a single note.
Fuck off, Fallon.
“Ah Christ!” I spat, crumpling the note and shoving it down deep in my pocket.
I pushed a hand through my hair, anxiety rocketing up my throat as I slammed through the door and stomped down the hallway, not taking time to wait for the elevator before I bounded down the stairs three at a time.
I reached the lobby, calling across to the porter, “You see a girl leave in a big white truck?”
The porter only grinned, eyes bright as I approached. “She told me you’d ask that, sir.”
I nodded, eyes widening at the knowledge that Augusta Belle had planned this escape ahead of time. “And?”
He grinned again, giving a nonchalant shrug before replying, “She said I shouldn’t tell you a goddamn thing—her words not mine, ’course.”
Anger pummeled through my muscles, my fists clenched as a roar fought its way out of my chest. “She took my fucking truck!”
“She said you’d be mad, said you’d look really scary, and that even if you start cussin’, I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I exclaimed, stalking off across the lobby toward the doors, first light of dawn cracking the horizon in the distance. “You gotta tell me where she’s at, bro. I’ll lose my fucking mind without her. I fucked up, I fucked up bad, and I went out and did some shit I shouldn’t have done. I shoulda been there and held her while she fucking cried, but I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough then, but I am now, man. I swear to fuck, I am now. Just those few hours without her…” I pushed a hand over my eyes, the idea that I’d lost her for good this time finally settling in. “I can’t fucking go through losing her again. You’ve got to understand.” I was back in his face, eyes locking with his. “I love her.”
