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My molars ground together. I tried to snap my eyes away, but some strange affliction made it impossible.
When she detached herself from the group and ambled towards the bar—though I knew she wasn’t coming to me—my pulse kicked up like a spooked, wild animal.
I took another hasty sip of my drink and reached for composure, but then—
Red wine spilled all over her, down her dress, the stain blooming like blood seeping from a wound. My knuckles blanched on the glass and a wave of cold disgust washed over me as a vicious thought barrelled through me.
Is that how she sees me?
My lip curled as Tiffany made her way to me with long feline steps, hips swaying with practised movements—so smug about her little power play—while all I wanted to do was vomit. My eyes flashed as they settled on her for a fraction of a second, then snapped away so I wouldn’t blurt out something I might regret.
I glimpsed the swish of Mia’s hair, muttered a stiff “excuse me” to Tiffany and left her where she stood without so much as a backward glance.
People got out of the way as I pushed past, as if sensing something radiating off me, though I was not entirely sure why I was even following. Or why I was so goddamn pissed.
What awaited me in the hallway stopped me in my tracks.
Liam. Leaning against the wall, facing the bathroom door, like he was… waiting for her.
The sight set my teeth on edge.
Why the fuck is he here?
A prickle of unease slid down my spine as my feet rooted to the spot, despite my protests.
Why the fuck do I care?
I must have been a masochist or something, because I waited for her to come out, hating myself more with every passing second.
The hatred grew fangs as Liam comforted her, until he coaxed out a reluctant laugh, until her shoulders dropped.
My chest pinched with a horrible sensation that made me want to vomit all over again. When his overly warm smile pulled my knuckles taut with the urge to punch a wall, I turned on my heels and walked away.
I didn’t bother rejoining the party. Instead, I called a car to pick me up and went to the apartment I kept in the city, simmering with something I couldn’t name.
The motions came automatic—jacket, riding boots, gloves—everything mechanical, almost second-nature.
The matte black of the Yamaha R6 came alive under the neon lights of the garage. I switched on the engine and sighed as the deep rumble greeted me like an old friend.
The helmet snapped on like armour, visor down with a flick of my head. The bike eased out like it was dying for it, too, and the door closed automatically behind me.
The engine thrummed in my bones, vibrating through my thighs and chest as I merged with what little traffic there was at almost midnight. The world came in muffled through the helmet, the music from bars I passed blurring into soft static as the smell of gasoline settled in my nose, soothing my pulse instantly.
Arms tense, hands tight on the handlebars, I felt every groove in the asphalt, every crack, until I caught it and loosened my grip.
The wind roared past my helmet and lights smeared into long blurs as I accelerated down deserted streets, pushing the bike—or myself, I didn’t know.
At a hundred miles per hour, my brain slowed and calmed enough that I couldn’t hear the laugh Liam stole from her lips anymore.
The dark thing pulsing inside me finally shut up.
My pulse synced with the engine, and my body weight shifted as I leaned into curves maybe a little too much, jaw hurting from how hard my teeth ground together. Once or twice, the traffic lights had turned green while I was staring at nothing, an impatient honk dragging me from my erratic thoughts.
With a weary sigh, I pulled over, took off my helmet, and dialled Michele’s number.
“Pronto, caro,”1 said the hoarse, sleepy voice on the other end.
“Hey, sorry to bother you at this hour.” I glanced at my watch: twelve forty PM. Shit.
