Page 47 of Her Sloth

She looks away, shaking her head.

I slide over to her, grasp her face.

“What happened in L.A.?”

“Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not letting this go.”

Tears roll over my hands. So many they trail down my arms.

She just cries. I don’t know what to do with her.

So I kind of hold her, let her cry without saying anything.

At some point, her sobs die and the salty tears on my hands and arms dry.

She shivers slightly in my touch.

And then, she gets up, removing herself from the closeness without a word and an empty gaze.

She takes the last gulp from the bottle.

“You don’t get the big roles by being good,” she says. “You get them by being chosen.”

The bottle crashes into the corner as she turns and walks away.

I jump up and grasp her hand to stop her.

“Don’t,” she breathes out, trying to get away, but I don’t let her.

“Why not?”

She stares at our touching hands.

Nothing happens for a moment.

And then she pushes me back into the wall, hard, pressing my arm up and fixing it with her hand.

My breathing quickens. No one has ever handled me like this. Somewhere, very deep in me, a tingling sensation pulsates in my core.

A wave of alcohol washes over me as she bends down. Instead of kissing me, she trails her lips up to my ear.

“Don’t,” she whispers darkly. “Because if you do, I will be the next one you drive your car off a dock for.”

With that, she lets go of me like she was electrocuted and walks away through the marble corridor, swaying less than I expected her to after an entire bottle of whiskey in that short amount of time.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” I say.

She stops.

Turns.

“No,” she says. “I’m used to not being allowed to decide anything. But I get to decide one thing, and that’s how and when I go.”

“I won’t let you,” I say, catching up with her.

“You can’t save someone who doesn’t wanna be saved,” she says in a dismissive tone.