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I groan to myself as the memory returns. Dead. She’s dead. Oh fuck.
Pushing the main door open, I stagger into the building and up the stairs, clutching the rail and cradling the brown paper bag under my arm. It’s like walking underwater, my feet heavy, the air like molasses around me. It takes me forever to reach my apartment, and then another forever to open the door and step inside. Padlocking the door behind me, as if that can keep the world out, I shuffle inside.
The whiskey bottles clink when I put the bag on the coffee table. The sound shatters the stillness like a gunshot. Echoes come back, and I shake my head slowly to clear my ears. Clear my head.
Not working. I sink down on the sofa. Something is digging into my ass, and I pull out my cell. A light is blinking on top. Missed calls. I check them. Rafe. Asher. Erin. Dakota. I hit ‘call’ on the last one.
My hand shakes when I bring the cell to my ear. I close my eyes and wait as her line rings and rings, then stops.
“The phone you are calling,” an automated voice says, “is currently out of the service area. Please try your call again later.”
I lower the cell, stare at it. Whatever. Fuck you, too, machine. My fingers spasm around the phone, itching with the urge to throw it against the wall.
I need… I don’t know what I need. What could make the mess in my head better. I suck on the barbell in my tongue. The emptiness of the apartment is taunting me. Reminding me of what I’m trying to forget. Being alone isn’t a good idea right now.
So I call Ash. My fingers drum on the armrest as his phone rings and rings. I call Rafe, and the call goes directly to voicemail.
“I don’t wanna fucking leave a message,” I yell into the phone and try to draw a breath through my nose, try to calm the hell down.
What the hell is going on?
I call Dakota again. Same result. Breathing hard, I lean back and close my eyes. What the hell is happening? Where is everyone?
Everyone’s gone.
No, dammit. No.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the image of the coffin, the flowers, Emma’s still face.
Fuck this. I reach for the paper bag and draw a whiskey bottle out. I unscrew the lid, tip the bottle and swallow.
A hiss leaves my throat as liquid heat slides down my throat, coating my insides. Pushing away the cold. I upend the bottle, gulping the whiskey down.
My vision blurs, and I wipe a hand over my eyes. Better. Yeah, fuzziness is good. Everything inside me, the razor-sharp edge of every thought and feeling, begins to dull, so I drink some more.
I can do this. Stay here, wait until Dakota or Ash or Erin or whoever calls or comes back here. Just need to hold on to sanity a little bit longer.
Someone will come. Someone will call. I know I’ve been walking around like a loaded gun for the past few weeks, snapping at everyone or avoiding them.
Shit. Dakota will come. She will.
I drink more, the warmth of the alcohol spreading in my stomach. The room tilts, and I fall back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. It spins in lazy circles. I need to… Fuck, I don’t know anymore.
Need to fit into this fucking new world order.
My eyes fall on a pair of scissors on the table. I grab them, test the edge. Yeah, they’ll do nicely. I lift them, see my wild eyes reflected in the shiny metal. Hands shaking, I get to work, cutting through my Mohawk. It’s like cutting through cardboard. Like cutting through my childhood, through my past, through all I am.
Bad idea.
The scissors clatter to the floor, and I run my hands over the chopped tufts. My head feels too light—but the heavy feeling in my chest is only getting worse. Grabbing the bottle, I chug down half of it in one go.
Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard. The room spins. I’m not sure what I’m doing here.
I need to call Dakota. Where’s my cell?
Turns out it’s lying by my side on the sofa. A symbol is flashing on the screen. It’s a tiny receiver. You have a voice message.
This is funny, and I snort. Who leaves voice messages nowadays?
