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Rachel takes my hand and tugs me closer. My heart flutters and I feel like a weight is being lifted from my shoulders as I meet her green gaze. She makes me feel like I’ve come home. And now she’s leaving.
“I would do anything for you, Hunter,” she whispers.
My head lowers to hers and she meets me halfway. Her mouth brushes against mine, her tongue slipping into mine. She strokes me just the way I like it. Her arm slides up my arm and tangles in my hair. My cock grows heavy with need. I want to take her to the nearest bathroom and fuck her against the stall. I want to drag her away from her flight and take her back to mine, tie her to the bed, and pleasure her until she promises me she will never leave my side. She nibbles on my bottom lip and I growl, my tongue tangling with hers, kissing her deeply. I don’t care who’s watching.
A cough sounds, but I ignore it, pulling Rachel closer to me. Unfortunately, Rachel is more polite than me, and she ends the kiss, turning toward the bros, watching us intently. Alex is smiling sheepishly while Seth is looking annoyed.
Lucas claps his hands together. “I hate to be that annoying cock block, but we really need to go. Security is a bitch. You know how it goes, right, Hunter?”
I nod and force myself to release Rachel. “Safe travels,” I murmur, fighting back tears.
“I will see you soon.” She brushes my hair from my face before turning around and following the bros toward the terminal.
I watch her go. My hands clench and unclench as I watch her leave me behind. After everything that happened—after apologizing and enjoying the day out yesterday, I still wanted a drink. The only way I got through it was holding Rachel’s hand and talking with Seth, Alex, and Lucas about bullshit. Who will stop me now? Myself?
Fat chance.
The drive home goes by quickly. And the walk to the liquor store goes by even faster. The bottles of vodka and rum stare back at me while the cashier scrutinizes me. He probably knows I have a problem. He probably doesn’t care—merely here to do his job and sell booze to everyone of age.
“Am I really going to do this?” I ask myself, taking a step back. I don’t have to. I can go to the gym and work out. I can call Dad. I never did for Thanksgiving. He’s probably worried. I could call Dr. Forrester and apologize for worrying her.
Instead, I choose Grey Goose.
I watch the cashier bag it and take my card.I won’t drink it all tonight,I lie to myself.Rachel should be home in three or four hours. I can call her. I don’t even need to pour myself a shot.I keep lying to myself as I walk with the bag in hand toward the complex, up the elevator, and into my apartment.
I set the bottle on the table and a shot glass in front of it. My fingers are moving on their own—working out of habit like I’ve been doing this for years. I plop myself in a chair in front of them both, my gaze shifting from the bottle to the shot glass.
Don’t do it,I tell myself. However, my hand is already reaching for the bottle. Am I having a mind out of body experience? I feel like I have no control over what I am doing. I watch the clear liquid flow into the glass all the way to the brim. My hands shake as I reach for it.
Think of Rachel, Hunter. You can call her later. Think of her if you don’t care for yourself.I slam my fists on the table and force myself away from the glass. My hands shake. My whole body tells me to go back, but I’ve made up my mind. I can go two days without a drink. I can do it.
I stalk into my bedroom and slam the door shut. I dump my body into bed and throw the blankets over myself, clamping my eyes closed and forcing myself to nap until Rachel is able to call. And that’s when I remember.
I didn’t dump out the bottle.
Chapter 25
RACHEL
Ishrugmypursefurther up my shoulder while trudging inside the classroom. My eyes blink wearily, adjusting to the different lighting. The hallway had been dark and welcoming, especially at this hour. Why did I choose a class at eight in the morning again? Oh, because I wanted to have a class with Charlie.That’s been working out well, I think sarcastically while scanning the rows of empty chairs yet to be filled by my peers.
I barely remember walking to campus, only the wall of chilly air smacking me in the face the moment I left the apartment, followed by clutching my scarf to my cheeks and ears as I strolled through the first layer of snow on the ground. My mind had been elsewhere—wondering if Hunter is okay, if he went back to drinking himself silly the moment we left. He never did call me when I got off my flight Saturday evening. I called him, but it went straight to voicemail. The same happened yesterday. There’s only so much I can do to help him. He has to want to help himself if he wishes to get better. He can’t rely solely on me.
My gaze lands on Charlie sitting in the back of the classroom with her small black purse resting on the seat next to her. She’s busy drawing something in her sketchbook—probably working last minute on a project due today. I wonder disdainfully if she and Mike had a wonderful fall break, if their days had been filled with cute little dates followed by a night of partying. What exactly does Charlie do with Mike? What do they talk about? I can’t see them having much in common. I suppose it might all be physical.
Charlie perks up in her seat the moment she notices me staring at her and her immaculately plucked brows pinch together with something akin to worry. She glances at the seat next to her and back at me as if requesting me to sit there. There’s a bitter part of me that wants to ignore her, but unfortunately, my feet have a mind of their own and I find myself plopping down next to her within seconds.
“Hey,” Charlie says uneasily.
It’s strange. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Charlie sound anything but confident. On closer inspection, I notice her eyes are bloodshot, if not slightly swollen, and her makeup is a bit smeared around the edges. She’s not wearing her usually bright lipstick and her clothes aren’t perfectly ironed. Her button-down is wrinkled as if Charlie snatched it from the floor and her black pencil skirt has crumbs sticking to her thigh. Even her hair hangs limply around her face and lacks the usual pristinely styled curls she’s so known for.
Who is this woman and what has she done with Charlie?
“Hey,” I say awkwardly, not knowing what I should say.
Charlie’s gaze drops to the tiled floor and I watch as she picks at a hangnail. Is she perhaps sorry for the fight we had? Or did something happen with Mike and now she’s returning to me with her tail in between her legs, like Lauren?
“I’m sorry about that night,” Charlie says softly, her bottom lip trembling. “I didn’t mean to go off on you.”
