He sees me as that glass.
I stand straight and stomp from the barn without another word.
Because fuck him. I am that piece of glass—too breakable, too weak, too transparent.
And apparently, useless too. Something I’ve never once been. I’ve always been the person who showed up to work the earliest, stayed the latest, did the jobs no one else would do. Because failing is as great of a sin as having a weakness.
“V, wait up,” McCrae calls out from the barn.
Feeling both pathetic and rejected, I hurry my steps, yanking open the truck door and jumping inside before he can say something else that’ll undoubtedly make me feel even weaker than I already do. A cloud of dust fills the rearview as I peel out of the driveway—and I don’t miss the look of pity on McCrae's face as he fades away.
Slumping into a chair, I try to focus on anything other than how sticky the table beneath my hands feels.
I hate dive bars. I hate towns with dive bars. I hate people who go to dive bars.
Lucky me, Moztecha, Texas has one bar, and guess what?It’s a fucking dive.
I wave at the bartender, an older woman who’s wrinkled tits fall out the top of her black tank top as she jerks the shaker, nodding in my direction. She looks like your typical, dive bar bartender. If I wasn’t so desperate to wash away the day, I’d be anywhere but here, relying onherto make me a drink that’ll undoubtedly poison me.
The slimy dealer’s face comes flashing through my mind. He sneered and swindled me, standing far too fucking close with a cologne that made me want to gag. He was a typical man,rubbing up against me like I was a fucking genie, and if he rubbed long enough gold, would come out.
I fucking hate men.
So even though my stomach turns at the thought of sitting here in this bar, I don’t move.
I need to get fucking drunk before I attempt going back to the ranch and facing McCrae. Or high. Fuck—I need to do both—numbness being the only reprieve I can confidently rely on.
As the bartender takes my order, I hear the seat next to me scratch against the floor before I feel the heat of another’s body fill it. All I want to do is be alone—I certainly don’t need some trashy, small town hick hitting on me too.
“Listen, I’m not interested,” I hiss, turning to pin the newcomer with my most venomous glare. I’m met with easy green eyes and a smirk to match, her expression far more devious than her girly appearance gives her credit for. I bite my tongue.
“Good. You’re not really my type.” Faith waves at the bartender. “I’ll have what she’s having. And a water.” She looks at me again, waiting.
I squirm under her scrutiny. “Are you babysitting me?”
She stares at me as if she’s chewing over the question with great consideration, and then she shrugs. “Do you need babysitting?”
“No.” I flash my teeth at her.
“Good. I just wanted to get a drink. I don’t feel like hearing you bitch anyways.”
I watch her, almost too shocked by her bluntness to form words. Finally, I relent. It might be nice to have someone to drown my sorrows and shame with—not that I’d ever admit it.
“Why are you wanting to drink?” I grumble, taking a sip of the cheap tequila and not even bothering to hide my wince. It really does taste like shit.Is there a floaty in my glass?
Faith barks a laugh, and I jolt. “Why does anyone want to drink?”
“Rejection. Anger and bitterness. Loss or sadness. Loneliness." I stare at the floaty.
I refuse to meet her gaze. I didn’t mean to say all that—it makes me sound more pathetic than I already feel, but I can’t take it back now.
“He said you might be in a shit mood, but that’s just fucking depressing. I only drink to have fun, to celebrate, to fuck.”
Tequila spews out of my nose.
At first, I want to laugh, but then, I’m hit with a wave of confusion. He called Faith—not me—to fix his fuck up.
“What’s your deal with McCrae?” I should sound bitter,but I don’t feel bitter.I’m curious, and I don’t know what to make of it.
