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I’d wanted to make everything better, and somehow, I’ve managed to fuck it all up instead.
And Orson didn’t even give me a chance to explain.
So much for trust.
31
Orson
Not okay,not okay, not o-fucking-kay.
My pulse is thundering in my ears, drowning out all reason as I storm out of Killer Brew and look around. I’d felt sorry for Molly, worried about him, but all that went out the window when I saw him put his mouth on Ford. He put my boyfriend in a situation that made him lose his cool for a second, and even though his reaction was minor for most people, I’ve never heard Ford raise his voice like that.
I know how much he would have hated it, especially with how hard he works to control his friendly image around here.
And I know how much I hated seeing another guy touch the man I love.
It’s not until I turn the corner and find a figure huddled in the gutter that I slow my steps. A sob hiccups from him, and hearing that wretched noise has the anger I’m desperately trying to hold on to gurgle away.
Molly doesn’t know I’m standing here, just sits there and cries, knees hugged tight to his chest, and as much as I want to force myself to hate him, to rage at him, and tell him how fucked-up that was, I … can’t.
Damn bleeding heart.
I turn my gaze skyward, looking up into the inky black above. The stars are hard to see from the alley between buildings, but it has the same effect anyway.
Insignificance.
Ford loves me.
I love him.
That hasn’t changed.
All that’s changed is that Molly did something desperate, and now he feels like shit. As he should.
I clear my throat and approach him.
“That was interesting,” I say. The bitterness is loud in my tone because while I might not be angry anymore, I’m still not happy about it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” By the way his words all tangle together, he’s very obviously drunk off his ass.
“Curious why you thought kissing my boyfriend was a good idea.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.” The defensiveness behind his words is weak.
I slump, wishing I could hate him. It would be easy,soeasy to tell him he’s a piece of shit and leave, but …
But.
Molly’s hurting. And I can understand a little of what that feels like.
Awkwardly—because this costume isn’t designed for sitting in gutters—I drop down beside him. “Sorry.”
He throws me a bleary-eyed glare. “What areyouapologizing for?”
“Getting in the way of your delusion.”
“Fuck you.”
