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REED
TWO MONTHS LATER
It was seven AM on a Monday morning, and I was drunk.
Okay, not drunk, but severely hungover.
I should’ve been on set, returning to work. I’d been back in LA for a month now.
But I couldn’t give a fuck. I didn’t care anymore.
Not about my work, not about my friends, not about anything.
My mom was taken from us, leaving my dad a shattered mess. Leaving my family a mess.
And the man who killed her? He was out on bail.
On bail.
Out living his life like nothing had fucking happened. Like he hadn’t destroyed our family in one morning.
And I was so goddamn angry about it that no one could talk to me. And I sure as fuck didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Especially him.
Tate had left numerous voicemails and texts. While I responded to the first few, I ignored the rest of them these past few weeks. I was too busy emptying out my liquor cabinet.
It was ironic and sad, like I was suddenly living out one of my Hollywood dramas.
I felt guilty coming home to LA, but Rissa insisted that I needed to get back to my home and my routine for my own health.
Not that I gave a fuck about that either.
I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t want to get out of bed.
I couldn’t stop crying, but I hated being emotional.
I didn’t want to feel, but pain was the only thing I knew.
So, I locked myself in my house and drank and drank and drank. Getting drunk and passing out was the only thing I wanted. Oblivion. I could forget about all the bad shit.
Pot barely relaxed me. Coke woke me up, and I sure as fuck didn’t want to be awake.
But gin and tequila? They burned all the way down and I welcomed that fucking fire.
Pain wanted pain.
I’d been tempted, just once, to cut myself. But given that I passed out at the sight of fake blood on set, and my stomach roiled just thinking about touching a knife to my skin, I brushed that idea aside.
I stuck to the pretty tasting poison instead.
My house was littered with empty bottles and garbage everywhere. It looked like I’d ransacked a bar. It smelled like one too, plus add in the stench of my unwashed body. I couldn’t be bothered to care about any of it.
Including the state of my bedroom. And that’s just where Tate found me.
Fucking Tate.
I glanced up from my drool-crusted pillow to find him standing at the foot of my bed. Or was I still drunk and imagining him?
