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The silence between them is a thick, woolen blanket. Suffocating and itchy, making her squirm on the spot.
Then—
He nods. A firm gesture as his jaw fixes tighter than his fist.
Billie has the fleeting gut-twist, one that tells her the nod wasn’t for her. Maybe it was for him. Answering some silent inner question.
His tone darkens to match the shadowy look on his face. “This time, I won’t chase you.”
I won’t be here when you need me again.
She senses the undercurrent of his words. The true meaning behind them. If Billie’s done, then Preston’s done.
The final breakup.
The end.
It’s a knife in the heart as he pushes up from the armchair and strolls out of the room, back into the bathroom. She waits a moment, simmering in her realization.
Need a ride from work?
No booze left or cash to get more?
Need a distraction from the pain?
Stuck in the cop station?
Another dead friend?
Can’t call Preston. She’s on her own.
Swallowing back a lump in her throat, almost as large as the one carved out of her heart, she reaches across the bed for her jean-shorts… and the vodka. Her crimson-soaked, torn t-shirt stays abandoned on the carpet as she shimmies into the shorts, the denim only wearing small spatters of blood. Preston’s t-shirt is so large on her that it hides most of the blood stains. Carmine’s stains.
She shuts her eyes on the thought and, slipping on her sneakers, swigs a generous amount of liquor. It burns her throat, a pain to distract from all the other agonies she suffers. A distraction. Just how she likes it.
The glass bottle is warm in her grip, left out in the summer heat swelling in the bedroom all through the night. But it’s the touch on her skin that feels like an old friend. A companion that never fails to provide comfort.
So she tightens her hold on it as she pushes up from the bed, her bones aching and throbbing in protest.
Just as she’s about to make for the door, the bathroom door swings open. Preston comes out, dressed in black slacks and a plain black t-shirt. It’s his style. Effortless, dark, casual, all with subtle hints of wealth.
His long lashes hang low over dark eyes. Like he didn’t expect she’d still be here. Still, she notices unfamiliar hints in his eyes, like specs of clear in the dark. Worry. Fear. And hurt.
Preston finds parting words for her. “Go on. Run, Billie. Run from the only thing in this world you have.”
The cruelty spears her right through the chest. Not just his words, but the sharpness of his tone, like the edge of a blade.
She has nothing to bite back at him, no fight left in her.
So, with a salute of the bottle she’s clearly stealing from him, Billie leaves.
He doesn’t chase.
8
Fuck.
That’s the one word that circles her head over and over, a shark circling blood. As soon as she storms out front of Preston Estate, it hits her. Her truck is back at the Joint still in the parking lot.
