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“Shut up.” I brace one hand on the wall and look down at her cleavage. Familiar motions. Only problem is, my body isn’t acting very interested, and I don’t feel like touching her breasts, or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.
Dammit. This isn’t working. I release her and start to pull back.
“What’s your hurry?” She slips her arms around my neck, pressing up to me.
Fuck. My heart jolts in my chest, and I jerk. I shove her off, slam her to the wall. “I said, rule number one: don’t fucking touch my back!”
“But I thought—”
“You thought wrong.”
And so did I.
I thought life would continue as before. Same places, same actions, same results. But nothing is the same anymore. This world I’ve built around me is made of glass, and it’s already cracking.
It’s morning. Late morning, perhaps. Something stupid is playing on TV, a talk show, people dressed in fancy clothes. I’ve turned off the sound.
I’ve also turned off my cell phone, but there’s pounding on my door. It comes and goes. I let it. It’s a counterpoint to the pounding in my head.
Sheets of paper are strewn around me, covered in my drawings. I thought it’d help me relax, but I guess it wasn’t enough. My eyes feel dry and gritty. Spent all night trying to get the anger on the paper, and it wasn’t fucking enough.
My glass is empty again. I give it a disgusted look, before I reach for the bottle. Problem is, it’s on the coffee table. Too far. Can’t remember why I put it there.
I slide off the couch and land on my ass on the carpet. The room spins, and I blink, trying to clear my vision. The bottle seems to sway on the table, and when I reach for it, it’s splintering, refracting into a prism of dancing colors.
Whoa.
I reach through them and wrap my fingers around the solid, cool bottle. Somewhere along the way down to the floor I’ve lost the glass, but who needs
one? I unscrew the lid and take a swig. I’ve been drinking since last night. Dimly, I’m aware I should stop. Someone should stop me. But the pounding on the door has ceased, and it’s easier to just drink some more and work on forgetting. Not that I’m having any success, but I’m not known for giving up so easily.
I work hard on my self-destruction.
This strikes me as funny, and I start laughing, then realize it ain’t funny at all, and I choke down some more whiskey. No idea why my eyes burn like this.
A chime sounds, and I look up, confused.
Then it sounds again.
The doorbell.
I frown. After all the pounding on my door, who would just ring the bell? Not a guy, I think randomly. Ash, Dylan or Rafe would keep pounding on the door until it crashes. Which is why I’m not letting them in or answering the phone. Because then I’ll have to talk, and explain, and I… I can’t fucking do this right now.
The bell rings again.
“Go away!” I yell, and fucking ow, my head. It’s about to split apart. “Just go.”
Someone yells from the other side of the door, “Zane, open up! Open this door.” A woman’s voice. “Please.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m not leaving. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
I stare at the door. The only thing that comes to my mind is, this isn’t Erin. Is it Tessa? There’s something in that voice…
My body is reacting to it, even though my brain is having trouble. I put the bottle down. “Dammit.” I struggle to my feet. My stomach roils as I stumble to the door. “What the hell…”
Looks like I locked my door last night when I came home, and now the damn lock is stuck. I curse it and jiggle the lock until it turns. The door opens.
