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RYDER
Present day
Studio City, CA
“Christ.” Sitting up, I scrub my hands up and down my face and toss the sheet off me. I must have drifted, which should make me happy. My insomnia is bad, so any sort of sleep is good. My gaze drifts to the sleeping woman next to me. This is the one place I shouldn’t be. I drop my hands and look for my bottle of Jack, ignoring the pounding in my temples, even though it feels like someone took a baseball bat to my head.
Fucking timing. Good or bad, it’s everything. Last night I was drunk enough, with one shot too many to do the right thing, and failed to ignore her incessant texts.
Standing, I crack my neck and make my way to her table to retrieve my half-empty bottle. It’s suffocating being surrounded by all of Cindy’s crap. The stuff’s not practical, at least not for me. I’m like a bull in a china shop.
“Jesus,” I growl, battling a giant white orchid to reach for my bottle. The fucking thing has branches and blooms sprouting in all directions. She’s gonna bitch that I broke it, but what the hell?
Unscrewing the lid, I take a deep swig. Her delicate glass bowl of potpourri makes me feel like I’m dead, lying in my coffin. The dried spicy flowers are so pungent and sweet, it’s stifling. I can’t get a good breath in. Add in the smell of sex, and my pulse is throbbing in my temples.
I shouldn’t have come here last night. I’d blame it on lack of sleep and too much booze, but it’s more than that.
Loneliness.
Stings like a bitch. My curse, my hell that I’m destined to live with night after night.
I close my eyes against the pain. The burn of whiskey barely bothers me as I finish the bottle. Her face appears before me, so beautiful and clear.
My obsession.
Doesn’t matter how much pussy and other substances I use as a substitute for her, she’s with me day and night. Owning me. My heart is bound and chained to hers.
Time to finish this with Cindy. This should be easy. I’ve never lied to her. She knew the rules from the first night. Fuck buddies. But that one night turned into two, and things got complicated fast.
And now here I am.
Cindy believes she loves me. She doesn’t. Not sure she can put her issues aside to really love anyone at this point in her life. But that’s not for me to fix, and deep inside she knows it, even if she continues to cling to this toxic relationship we’re submerged in. She’s determined to keep it alive and breathing when it should have died years ago.
“Fuck,” I hiss, kicking aside her discarded clothes and locating my jeans on the floor. Pulling my cigarettes from the pocket, I light up and move to her balcony where I close my tired eyes and inhale deeply. The warmth of the sun and the cigarette lull me into a false sense of peace until I hear her voice, as if she’s here next to me instead of a ghost choosing to haunt.
Mom.
Her tortured face swims in front of me.
She knew.
I prop my hand on the glass door, not able to stop my past from taking another piece of me this morning. My mind is a powerful beast. I should know better than to fight it.
“You killed them,” my mom shrieks at me, clutching the phone. Her black hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her dark eyes are wild. She shakes the receiver at me.
“Cursed. Diavolo,” she wails.
I back up and shake my head, “No, please, Mamma. This is not my fault!”
“It is.” Her tear-stained face makes her appear older than her age. “You should have been in the car. You were supposed to go, but you did not… and you… you let them go.” She stares at me as if she’s only now seeing me. Her face is filled with disgust and fear. Collapsing to the floor, she weeps and rocks back and forth, her hand wrapped around the crucifix on her neck, her other still holding the phone.
“Mamma, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I walk toward her, but she screams, Italian dripping from her lips so fast I can’t keep up, but I don’t need to. I know what she’s saying.
Because she’s right. I did know, but I never said anything. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway. No one does, especially not my dad or my brother…
“Dead. They’re dead.” She drops the phone to lift her fist, chanting a prayer.
I shake my head and kneel with her to pray. Pray for why I’m cursed, why…
“You’re not my son. You’re not welcome in this house anymore. You’re a murderer. Get out, you Devil.”
Opening my eyes, I look down at my cigarette—it’s burned out. My fingers are stained yellow from too many nights of doing exactly this.
