There is nothing left in my system now.
Nothing but regret and emptiness.
“You know I’m going to need some answers,” Mack tells me. “Right, Scarlett?”
“I know. But I just can’t… right now.”
“I don’t like keeping secrets from Lach,” she says.
I’m quiet, and for a minute I think I’m on my own again. That she’s not going to help. Her loyalty lies with them and I don’t blame her. But then she speaks.
“I’ll call Fitzy,” she says. “He’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Just do me one favor.”
“What?” I ask.
“Please don’t be alone tonight,” she begs. “Come to our house.”
“Thank you,” I tell her again. “But I have somewhere else I need to be.”
Twenty-Three
Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me- F. Scott Fitzgerald
There isone universal truth about men.
They want to feel like Kings.
They want to eat like Kings. Fuck like Kings. Sit on the sofa (AKA throne) and watch TV like Kings. If they fixed something around the house, you better damn well tell them they are a fucking King. Because in their hearts they are sensitive little beasts who want to be regarded as the Alpha by all their brethren and any woman who might stumble into their path.
Rory is no different.
So it is with little surprise that I find him in the VIP lounge at Slainte.
The VIP lounge is dark. Crimson and black and sultry. Men are meant to feel like Kings here while women take off their clothes and dance only for them.
There is a dancer up on stage and she’s beautiful, and I respect what she does because I used to do it too, once upon a time.
I also want to rip her heart out.
I don’t know if Rory is watching her or not. It’s difficult to tell from behind him. But I watch him in the shadows for some time.
If I just left, then things would go back to the way they were. We wouldn’t cross paths, except for the rare occasion. There would be no drunken phone calls filled with regret because Rory and I aren’t those people.
He would go back to having quick fucks to satisfy his appetite, and I would go back to my revenge, either accomplishing what I set out to do or dying in the process.
I should go.
He deserves better than this. Better than me. That imaginary family he’s building his home for. He should have those things.
I’m good at leaving.
Pushing people away. Keeping everyone at a distance and burning anyone who flies too close to me.
But I’m bad at leaving Rory.
