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Michael’s familiar grating voice, a scratchy and strained sound like he’s smoked a pack a day since he came outta the womb, announces, “Party down at the harbor.”
“You coming?” Dick’s words slur over the keg of beer he’s likely had tonight to wash down all the drugs. She isn’t judging. But that’s not completely opposite to how she got herself and everyone else into this Blood Hood mess.
Billie stays propped against the doorframe and takes another generous swig of vodka. She keeps her stare on Preston who lights up the dead joint between his fingers.
He’s quiet a moment.
‘You coming?’
He seems to consider it. And Billie’s insides are screaming ‘no, no, don’t leave me’, but not even a flicker of her worry passes her stone-cold expression.
Preston’s eyes, darkened by the mood and the night, cut to her.
And she wonders if he reads her mind when he answers—
“No.” He shakes his head slightly. A dark strand of thick hair falls over his face, the tip brushing against the shadow of his temple. “See you tomorrow,” he adds for good measure.
The boys don’t question him about it. They don’t push the matter. All they do is grumble between themselves, then—as Michael throws a nasty look Billie’s way—Dick grabs him by the shoulder and steers him down to the Mercedes parked in the driveway.
Once they’re out of earshot, Billie turns to Preston. She’s relieved he’s staying, but still, the words spill out of her mouth and she can’t fight back the venom in her snarl, “In case you forgot, we broke up. I’m not yours to babysit.”
Disinterested, he doesn’t look at her, but rather he watches the car pull onto the driveway. “Not everything is about you. Maybe, god forbid, I’m not in the mood for a harbor party in the sticks.”
Billie hums anuh-huhbefore pushing from the doorframe. With her hand still wrapped around the bottle neck, she flips him off, then heads inside.
He doesn’t follow.
And she stomps up the stairs alone.
10
It takes Billie a matter of seconds to do her business on the toilet, but that doesn’t get her out of the ensuite-bathroom in a rush.
Instead, she takes refuge within white tiled walls. She climbs into the tub that’s bigger than her own damn bed, tucks the vodka between her thighs to keep it secure, then lights a cigarette stolen from Preston, so he says.
He always buys the fancy smokes, ones she can’t afford. And now, smoking in the tub, they feel sorta cozy, like they’re adding something to the little sanctuary she’s creating in here.
Something of an escape.
An escape from Preston, downstairs?
Sure. But it’s more than that. More than all of it.
Sometimes, she just needs to escape herself.
It’s always been about that. She knows it. Just doesn’t want to admit it.She’sthe problem. No one else.
So, yeah, her little refuge in the bathtub with vodka and a Marlboro, is to escape what she feels when she’s down there with him—the urge to rush into his arms, tell him to take it all away, tell him to make it all better.
He would, if she let him.
He’d do anything for her.
And he would break her, too.
A part of her wants to be broken by him. Shattered to pieces. She deserves it—but she doesn’t deserve the love he offers her.
That’s the truth. One she’s in no mood to acknowledge right now—or any time.
