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"I need a fucking drink," I say to the empty room, knowing that I can't stop Tyley if she really wants to leave. I'm not about to pin her down or drag her back inside. The bottle of whiskey calls to me from the cabinet, and I don't hesitate to pour myself a generous glass. The burning liquid slides down my throat, but it's not enough.
With a second glass in my hand, I pace around my place, my heavy strides suddenly sounding too loud. Has this place always been this empty?
With each drink, the pain of Tyley's betrayal—real or imagined—fades a little. But the anger remains, a simmering undercurrent that refuses to go away.
I grab the whiskey bottle to hurl it at the walls or the floor or against the furniture. It doesn't matter; I just want to break something, anything. Letting out a primal scream, I watch as the bottle of whiskey flies from my hand and onto the fridge, making a mess as it crashes against it.
Then comes a chair and finally half of the glasses in my bar.
This burst of destruction is a release, a way to let out the emotions that are threatening to suffocate me. But with each broken piece, each shattered item, the emptiness inside me grows.
I’ve got to get out of here. I grab my phone to call one of my friends, "Yo, Samuel," I'm not drunk enough to slur my words, but I plan to get there at some point in the night. "Come pick me up, man. We're going out dancing."
"Hell yeah. Be there in a minute."
Of course, he will. Samuel isn't one of the friends one calls when they want support or advice. He's the one you call when you need to get a wingman for scoring and shots at a ridiculously expensive bar.
We're on our way to the club not an hour later, and he's all too glad to drive my Porsche when I tell him I'm too drunk to do it.
"This isn't working, man. It's not fucking working."
"What's not working, Gray?"
"Tyley. She's a..." I want to say a bitch, I really want to, but my brain refuses to give my mouth the order. "She's not right for me. What I need is to replace her."
"Whoa, I thought you were crazy about that gal. I never saw you going this long without screwing some other hottie."
"Well, all of that changes tonight. I'll fucking replace her with a sexy piece of ass or two. Three, why the hell not!"
"That's the spirit!" Samuel chuckles, parking in front of whatever hot club he just drove us to. "It's time to party."
Strobe lights paint the room in neon slashes, the bass thrumming beneath my feet. But even as I gulp down yet another drink, the energy of the club eludes me. Almost immediately, a gorgeous young thing draped in glitter and confidence comes toward me, her lips curled up into a smile filled with sensual promises.
“You’re that fighter, aren’t you? Grayson, something?”
“That’s me,” I nod, trying to go for a winning smirk, but my heart isn’t into it. She’s beautiful, there’s no doubt about that, but her smile seems phony and dull compared to Tyley’s bright grin.
“I’ve never danced with a professional fighter, you know,” she purrs and leans forward, beckoning me to change that. It should be tempting, but somehow, it leaves me feeling cold and bored.
“I don’t think that’s going to change tonight.”
I don’t even bother watching the disappointment flooding her pretty face before I turn away.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Samuel tells me, having witnessed the entire exchange. “She wasn’t the right one to help you forget Tyley. We’ll find someone. What about that sexy blonde there?”
"Ty's a blonde. I don't want another blonde."
"Alright, alright, no blondes. What about redheads?"
As Samuel continues to point out various women in the club, I find fault with each one of his suggestions. The truth is, no matter how attractive or willing these women may be, none of them hold a candle to Tyley.
As the night wears on, a realization starts to dawn on me, and I pat Samuel's shoulder, ready to call it a night.
"This was a stupid idea."
"Nah, it wasn't—we'll find you someone, just wait."
"Let's get out of here, man. I just want to get in bed and sleep this fucked-up night away."
