Page 115 of On The Edge

I look at Halloran and Grimaldi—the most unlikely pairing of friends on the circuit—and shake my head. “I’m gonna pass. I’ve got—”

“Wait. What?” Grimaldi asks, smile snarky and eyes wide. “You’re turning down the offer to go out and let off some steam? You feeling okay?”

Halloran props his elbow on Grimaldi’s shoulder and just tsks in disappointment. “Your woman is gone. Are you telling me she has a chain around your ankle so fucking tight that you can’t go out on your own? I mean, what the fuck, man? You’re shaming the rest of us right now.”

“It’s not like that. It’s been a long fucking weekend. I’m tired. I’m coming down with something—”

“Yeah, it’s called being pussy-whipped,” Grim says.

“No, it’s called I’m tired.”

“We’re so sorry that placing P2 and keeping your hopes of a championship alive is so taxing you can’t go out for a drink or two.” Halloran narrows his eyes and studies me.

Taking the edge off does sound nice.

That singular thought leads to the trendy club in the upscale part of town. The inside is neon lights, dark shadows, and vibrating bass from the dance floor two stories below. Numerous people linger just on the edge of the VIP ropes where we all sit with drinks in hand amidst the few women that Halloran invited to sit with us.

Buzzed but disconnected.

That’s how I feel about all of this. The atmosphere. The bottle service. The flash. The women.

Didn’t this used to be my preference of poison? The way to get lost in the noise?

“Hey, Navarro? Live a little, will you?” Grimaldi says and then tilts his chin to the woman sidling up beside me.

She’s gorgeous in all the ways I typically like—the curves, the hair, the fashion—and yet my smile is a half-ass attempt when I greet her with a simple nod.

“A drink?” she asks.

“Yeah. Sure,” I say, annoyed more than anything.

“Thank you.” She rests her hand on my thigh and runs it up a little higher.

“You’re welcome.” I put my hand on hers and move it off my leg.

“C’mon.” She pouts with those red-stained lips of hers. Lips that would give any man lascivious thoughts. “Party boy like you? Why don’t we get out of here and I can show you around the town . . . or do other things?” Her hand moves back.

I grip her wrist and lean into her so she can hear me. “Why don’t we keep our hands to ourselves before you get embarrassed for the rejection I’m about to give you?” I stand up, my fingers still around her wrist. “Have a good night. Enjoy the drink.”

* * *

“Madds.” The syllable is slurred and followed by a chuckle.

“Cruz? You okay? It’s . . . I don’t even know what time it is here or there for that matter.”

“I’m on the rooftop.” With my bottle. With my eyes closed and the stars in the sky spinning around me. Without her.

“What are we contemplating?”

“All the ways I’ve fucked up.” Another chuckle to cover the ache that has been in my chest all night.

“Cruz?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m good,” I say.

“What do you mean?” Panic? Concern? Annoyance? Whatever it is, it vibrates through her voice.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Goodnight, Madds.”