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‘The story’.
That’s what it is to them.
A fucking story.
This is Billie’s life. Carmine’s life. Gigi’s life.
They’re gone.
A snap of the fingers… gone.
It doesn’t feel real. How can it?
One day, she woke up and—now this…
She can barely make sense of her days, her nights. Like time has tangled together and—
The shower stream stops. The pipes strain. Old money, old house. It’s noisy with things like that.
Some clattering comes from the attached bathroom.
Billie plops down on the side of the bed, shotting back a hefty amount of her vodka-OJ, and watches the doorway to the bathroom.
She waits for him.
It’s only a few moments, a few clatterings of this and that, until he switches off the light and steps over the threshold of the bedroom.
Black eyes find her, instantly. Like he has a sense for her, can feel where she is exactly at any moment. But his eyes, always dark, look black now. Weathered. Tired. Angry.
Because of her.
She broke up with him. He can’t seem to get her back, but she fucks him still. Preston’s losing hope. And…
He’s fucking pissed.
But he says nothing awful.
Instead, “How are you feeling?” he asks and leans against the doorframe. He folds his glistening arms over his defined chest, a sight that makes Billie want to drown herself in him, not the booze, because he’ll make her forget everything.
Even if it’s just for a short while. He can do that. Make her forget.
Temporarily.
Every nerve in her body is suddenly yearning for him. Her finger itch to reach out for the damp tendrils of dark hair falling over his forehead, brushing over his perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her lips tingle with the memory of his mouth grazing hers, his kisses on her scar, his peppermint taste, and—fuck—his teeth dragging over her bottom lip hard, too hard sometimes.
Can she fuck the pain awaywith pain?
She wants to rip that towel right off him, yank it away from around his waist. She wants his hand fisted in her hair, his nails cutting into her thigh, his thrusts hard and sore.
She wants what he gave her in the trailer and last night in his bed—
A hate fuck that leaves her hollow and numb.
Preston’s mind is elsewhere as he studies her. Totally and utterly without desire. Instead, she senses observation. Maybe a dash of pity.
Then, he breaks the long silence, shatters their locked stare, and repeats himself, “How are you feeling?” Those echoed words are spoken firmer this time.
Billie tucks her gaze down as she brings her feet up to the edge of the mattress, folding herself.
