Page 40 of The Marriage

“It doesn’t even matter,” Roman said quietly.

“Nah, it does. You know it does.”

“Yeah, well—”

“And you’re a married man, now. You have a chick who cares about you. What are you doing getting fucked up, huh? How’s that gonna look?”

“She won’t even talk to me on the phone. She fucking hates me.” Roman pushed away from Marky and the wall, throwing that cigarette to the ground, too. He really didn’t need it, and he’d lost the urge for nicotine, really.

His friend took small steps, keeping his distance but still following behind. Marky knew better than to think he could get Roman to actually do what he wanted.

That’s not how any of this worked.

“Where are you going?” Marky asked

Roman shrugged, throwing his hands wide. “It’s over. It’s fucking over, man. I thought I could save her, but I can’t.”

Or was he talking about himself?

Hell.

Even he didn’t know.

*

It felt like an entire day had passed when Roman woke up next. He couldn’t remember anything from the previous night, but he woke up in the same jeans and button-down shirt that he’d been wearing the night before.

Alone.

The last thing he was able to bring to mind was going to the place where he knew they’d hand a baggy over to him with no questions asked. Just the sight of his face alone would guarantee him his drug of choice.

He was still Little Odessa’s Devil, after all.

Spoiled beyond rotten.

Unquestioned, and unchallenged.

After that, everything was a haze.

Did Marky show up? Yeah, he did remember that. Everything after, though? Roman couldn’t be sure.

Did they drive around for hours?

Did he steal a car?

Who the fuck knew.

Roman couldn’t remember anything.

Somehow, he’d ended up in his own bed in his loft. The same one the cops had raided in Odessa before he’d been sent to Chicago. Fuck, he missed that place like nobody knew.

For that, he was grateful to Marky. This was exactly the reason why he’d texted his friend. Even if the prick did feel some kind of way about Roman’s drug use, he’d still watch his back no matter what.

Sitting up in bed, Roman scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t trimmed his beard in days, leaving his face dry and rough under his touch. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he took a shower or changed out of these clothes.

Had he put them on yesterday?

Or the day before?