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thirty-three
. . .
River
The last fewdays had been a living hell. I’d come to learn that I actually did have a heart, but unfortunately, I hadn’t realized it until it had been decimated.
Ruby Rose has torn me in two.
I’d had Cassie clear my schedule these last few days, and I’d told her I was sick, so the girl was having soup sent over daily from the Golden Goose. But I didn’t have an appetite, and that was because I’d decided to get shitfaced every single day since I’d found Ruby with Professor Lame Ass.
Turns out, numbing yourself wasn’t all that effective. There wasn’t enough booze in the world to not feel this right now. I felt all of it.
Sadness. Hurt. Loneliness.
And for a diehard, content loner, this shit was pissing me off. I hated how quiet my house was now. There was no taunting or endless banter or sarcastic laughter.
No Queenie.
No life. No light. No joy.
I’d lived through some shit in my lifetime, but this was a different kind of darkness.
I’d shut everyone out, and I knew the guys were about done with it because the last few texts were no longer check-ins. They were concerned.
Today was the first day I hadn’t turned to the bottle the minute I’d woken up. I knew I couldn’t wallow forever.
I sent a quick text to Cassie.
Hey. Thanks for the soup, but I’m fine now, so you can stop sending over food. I’ll be back at the office tomorrow. You can start rescheduling those clients that we canceled.
Cassie
Thanks, boss. I’ve got soup on the way right now. It’s your favorite today, French onion.
I shook my head. Did she ever listen to anything I said? And what sick person on the planet wants a bowl of piping-hot French onion soup? I didn’t respond, and I spent the next hour showering for the first time in a few days and getting dressed.
The doorbell rang, and when I opened it, Kingston stood there, holding the container of soup, spoon in hand, as he shoveled it into his mouth.
“This was on your doorstep, and I figured in your sad-sack mood, you wouldn’t want French onion.”
“Fuck off. You just helped yourself? Why are you here?”
“Because I’m your brother, and it’s time to pull your head out of your ass.” He followed me into the house and dropped to sit at the kitchen island, as he continued eating.
My meal.
“What if I was sick, and that was sent as the only nourishment I could get in my stomach?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“I’d still eat it. You’re a survivor. You could live off the land. Hell, you’d probably be one of those dudes who could survive on an island and live well. I’m more of a takeout, have-my-meals-made-for-me kind of guy. I like home-cooked meals and being pampered. And I had a few too many beers last night and thought maybe you’d massage my head for me?” He smirked. The annoying bastard was a needy little fucker.
“I’m the one who hasn’t been feeling well. How about you massage my head?”
“You hate human touch. I thrive on it. Which brings me to my point.” He shrugged before spoon-feeding himself several bites of soup.
“Are you going to fucking make it today?”
“Ah… always so impatient.” He set the spoon down, letting it rest in the soup. “I came to tell you that I think we fucked up with the sticky note.”
