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“Just let me see her, Tory. I need to fucking see her!”
“And she doesn’t want to see you. Or talk to you. Or anything, you piece of shit! So why don’t you go rot in hell.”
“This isn’t about you, so stay the hell out of it. Callie! Callie, Please! Just talk to me! Please! I love you! I love you, Callie!”
“Stop yelling. You’re going to wake the whole neighborhood.”
“I don’t give a shit. Please. . . please let me see her.”
I’d spent months trying. Begging. Borderline stalking, but Callie never spoke to me. Her friends moved her things out of my place, and whatever I had at hers ended up in flames on my doorstep in the middle of the night. She was done with me. The weeks after were a blur, drinking myself into oblivion. I wanted to feel numb, but no amount of alcohol rid her from my mind. A few months later, I got a call from a man named Sammy Stone. He’d gotten my info from my current construction company, asking if I was interested in a job opportunity. A two-year contract renovating cabins. My options were to sit around, killing myself with booze and resentment, or take the job. I packed my shit up the next day, leaving my life behind.
At first, the solitude was good for me. I worked until my muscles ached, came home, and fell into bed, too exhausted to think about Callie. And then I did it all over again the next day. Consistency was my lifesaver. Stay busy, stay too tired to think, and I would survive. Each day would get easier in hopes that maybe she would just be an afterthought one day. But that day never came. It’s been a year and a half, and I’m so fucking tired.
And then she shows up on my front porch. I thought I was imagining it. Being alone for so long, your mind starts playing tricks on you. It wouldn’t have been the first time I thought I’d seen her. Wished her to be with me. But in my dreams, she always smiled. Gifted me those glistening eyes. When the vision in front of me started cussing like a sailor, I knew this time she was real.
Having her in my arms again was complete torture. The reminder of how soft her skin felt. The sweet taste of her pussy against my lips. And those little purrs of pleasure. She was perfect in every way. Being inside her after so long almost broke me. It’s as if that instant dominance that seared through my veins every time we fucked, made love, never went away. The bond we shared was nothing we could describe. She owned me just as much as I owned her. Fuck, my cock becomes hard imagining her under me. Those intense, greedy eyes blazing up at me with desire. It also triggers her words from earlier.We have to stop this hate fucking.Anger builds, and I clench my jaw. Hate fucking isn't how I would begin to describe it. Incredible. Mind-blowing. The feeling of coming home. I want to storm out there and make her take back all the bullshit she spewed. She doesn’t hate me. And to be honest, I don’t hate her. I still love her. I never stopped. Despite what she did, I wasn’t lying when I told her my heart belonged to her. And that’s never changed.
I inhale deeply. We can’t keep doing this. Fighting and fucking, fucking and fighting. It’s messing both of us up. She no longer belongs to me. I need to put my feelings aside and stop with these games because I’m playing with fire here.
I debate about giving her space, but the silence worries me. I throw on a clean shirt and head out, ready to rescue her for a third time, but surprisingly, she’s in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of bourbon.
“When did you start drinking bourbon?” I ask, grabbing her attention.
“I don’t. They’re both for you. I’m going to drink this moonshine.”
“That shit’s strong.”
“Perfect. Exactly what I need right now.” She slides the two glasses across the counter and then pours half a glass of moonshine. Smelling it, her nose turns up. “Or not. Do you have anything to mix this with?”
“Still in your martini phase?” I smile at her, remembering what a martini connoisseur she was.
“Duh, who loses their love of martinis? I told you, one of these days, I’m going to write a martini recipe book. Make millions. People need to show more love for them. All the combinations you can create? They’re endless!” My cock jerks against my jeans. She always got overly excited when she talked about fucking martinis. I thought it was dumb as shit, but man, did it turn me on.
I lift one of my glasses. “Should I assume there’s poison in this?”
“Never say never. Cheers.” She lifts her glass to mine. Dying with her in sight isn’t a terrible way to go, so I take down the whole glass. “Feel anything yet?”
“No, but should I give you the password to my safe with my millions, just in case?”
Her eyes widen. “You have millions?”
I pretend to fake cough. “I guess. . . you’ll. . . never—” I grab my chest.
“Oh, stop it. If I wanted to kill you, I would be way more creative and draw it out. Poisoning someone is the weakest way to do it.”
“Wow. I suddenly feel much safer in your presence. Tell me more.”
She shrugs, taking a sip of the moonshine. “Well, for starters, I’d wait till you fell asleep. God, this is awful.”
“It’s not meant for a weak stomach. And what would you do once I fell asleep?”
I watch her as she pretends to ponder, tapping her bottom lip. I clutch my glass, fighting not to drag her across the counter into my lap. “Hmm. . . I’d probably get you naked and draw all over you, like penises or something. Then, take pictures and post them on social media. Public humiliation is basically death by torture.”
The way her cheeks are turning red tells me that she’s thinking about me naked. She tries to mask it by taking too large a sip and choking, spitting some of it out. “God, I think I just poisoned myself.”
My chest rumbles, and I stand, walking around the counter to the cabinet above the sink. “Here. Drink this.”
Her eyes light up like I just gave her a new puppy, and she grabs the bottle of wine. “Oh my god! I love you!” She catches herself after the words fall off her tongue. “I mean, the wine. I love the wine. I thought you didn’t drink wine.”
