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23. After the Depravity
Jules
Voices blend together in a cacophony of celebration. The band’s house is overflowing with people and music. A cloud of smoke drifts in the air, as does the scent of beer and mixed drinks.
I’m plopped in the corner of the living room in a beanbag chair, doing what I promised I’d never do again.
“Girl, you are wasted.”
“Am not,” I mutter. But even in this heady, I-don’t-give-a-fuck stupor, I’m aware of my weak denial.
Garen flops onto the beanbag chair with me and tosses an arm over my shoulders.
“You so are.” His breath flits across my cheek, and I catch a hint of whiskey. It reminds me of Cash tonight.
Slightly intoxicated. Walls down. Desire running rampant.
He has no fucking idea how hard it was for me to walk away.
“Who has no idea, gorgeous?”
Did I say that out loud? Shit. This is exactly why I shouldn’t drink. I say and do stuff I don’t mean to.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I slur.
“I don’t fuck drunk chicks.”
“Don’t let anyone else fuck me either.”
“We don’t hang around with sleazes, so no worry there, babe.”
“Just checking.” The room seems too dim. I’m so tired. So fucking heartbroken. And limp from the booze. I lean my head on Garen’s shoulder. “It’s happened before.”
“What has?”
“Someone fucked me. I don’t even remember it.”
“That’s fucked up, Jules.”
“I know. Shouldn’t’ve done it.”
“No, I mean it’s fucked up he did that to you. That ain’t right.”
“Lots of things aren’t right.” I curl into his side, eyes closed, and he tightens his arm around me. “I’m in love with someone I can’t have.”
“That sucks. Been there myself.” He shifts, and I hear liquid sloshing, and him taking a long swig of his chosen poison.
“This is why I don’t drink. Can’t keep my big mouth shut.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“You’re a nice guy, Garen. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not very often.”
“Why’s that?”
“I break too many hearts.”
