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“Yes, because you’re the easiest person to talk with. Father, I have to make appointments to see you,” I reply. “Does Mother know you fucked Whiskey’s mother?” His eyebrows raise at me.
“Yes. Yes, she knows.” He wipes his brow. “It’s why she never approved of your marriage.”
Oh, well that makes sense. I just figured it was Mother being a bitch. But she never liked Whiskey due to who his parents are.
“It’s not Whiskey’s fault you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants and had to fuck his mother, ruining his life.”
Whiskey smirks.
I give him a pointed look as I speak to him next. “But it is your fault that you fucked me over. I had nothing to do with any of this. You came in and ruined my life. You turned it upside down and made me have feelings for a man I will never trust.”
“You can trust me, Lottie.” I shake my head, pushing myself up and off the wall. The bottle slips from my grip and shatters at my bare feet.
“Lottie, you’re a mess,” my father says.
“You made me this way. Now leave. I need to go to bed.” I step off, and before I realize what I’m doing, my feet are cut by the broken glass. It stings, and I drop, but before I hit the floor, Whiskey’s there, lifting me into his arms. My head spins and I clutch it.
“You should go,” Whiskey says to my father.
“She needs me,” my father replies.
“No, she doesn’t. Now leave my hous—”
“My house,” I interject.
“Yeah, yeah, Bunny,” he says into my ear.
“I’ll call tomorrow, Lottie.” I don’t even bother replying to him as Whiskey carries me to the bedroom. I don’t hold on, but he doesn’t need me to. He’s strong enough to hold me himself.
“I am sorry. So sorry,” Whiskey says.
“Your words won’t work. Actions now, that’s all you have left.”
Whiskey looks at me, and I look back at him. When he walks in the bedroom, he places me on the bed and kisses my forehead. It’s soft, and he lingers, breathing me in. “If that’s what it takes.”
“It will take more than that,” I say, my head falling back until I am lying flat on the bed. Whiskey disappears and comes back with a first aid kit and sits down, lifting my foot, then gets to work on it.
“Why are your things packed?” he asks.
“I was moving out.”
“Where to?”
“Back to my old place. I don’t want to be here a second longer, there are too many memories here and they are all bad.”
“Do you want to move in with me?” he asks.
“No,” I answer without hesitation.
“The offer is always there.”
“Was I just a way to get to him?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes at his words, trying not to let them hurt me. “That is, until you weren’t.”
“I still hate you,” I say.
Whiskey’s hand rubs my leg, and it takes everything in me to not climb over him. I want him. I’ve never denied that there’s an attraction to him, even when I didn’t like him, I was attracted to him.
