“I’m not a toy you get to play with anymore.”
“Fine. No more games. All you have to do is fuck me; then you can go.” She wraps one of her legs around my waist.
I huff out a laugh. “I think you’ve fucked me enough, don’t you? Thanks for the present. I’m sure Erin can help you out where I can’t.” I release one of her hands and reach for the doorknob so I can get the fuck out of here.
“You’re just a fucking whore,” she tells me. “You know that, right? Your dick is the only useful thing about you.” She gifts me with another slap across the face.
“Don’t call me the next time you’re in town. Don’t text. Don’t send emails. We’re done, Tash. For real this time. I don’t care how messed up your life is; you don’t get to take it out on me.”
I wrench open the door, and she follows me into the hall, still naked, still screaming. I wish I had a good reason for putting up with this. Better, I wish I could say for sure that this truly was the last time, that I won’t do this to myself again.
But I can’t.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, and as soon as I’m outside, I throw up. I want to hit something. I want the feelings on the inside to be outside my body instead.
As soon as I’m able, I get in my Hummer and get the fuck out of there. Otherwise I know Tash will come looking for me, and I’ll end up fucking her in the front seat. It’s happened before.
Instead of heading north to where I live, I drive south out of the Loop. I keep going past everything that’s familiar before I find a bar. I need to drown out all the shit in my head. I need to lobotomize myself against this night. I need the will to stop this thing with Tash.
CHAPTER 2
FIGHT
LANCE
I find a shitty bar—somewhere I’m not likely to run into anyone I know. I parallel park the Hummer like an asshole, taking up just enough space that no one can get in behind me and fuck up my paint, which is likely based on the quality of the cars on this street.
I slip my phone into my pocket, even though leaving it in the car would be a much better idea. Potholes mark my way to the front entrance, the sign flickering, the last two letters unable to stay lit for more than a second before they go dark again.
The interior is even sadder than the exterior. Low lights can’t hide the dilapidated state of this place. A group of older men in worn jeans and threadbare T-shirts sit in the corner by the dartboards. They look my way for a moment, murmur to each other, and return to their conversation with a couple of coughs.
Two other tables hold couples drinking cheap beer out of bottles. At the very back of the bar, two women dressed in tight jeans and flimsy tops play pool. No one is going to recognize me here.
It’s the perfect place to get fucked up. I head for the far end of the bar, close to the pool tables and away from the group of old guys. It’s dark over here, less conspicuous. I drop onto a barstool and wait for the bartender. It takes him a minute to get to me, but it’s nice to be treated like a nobody once in a while. It reminds me that I’m only special in my own little bubble.
I motion to the wall of booze. “I’ll take a glass and whatever’s left in that bottle of Walker.” It’s the least offensive thing they have in the whiskey department, and it looks to be about three-quarters full.
The bartender taps the wooden bar as I flip open my wallet and pull out two bills.
He looks down as he takes the money. “You want ice?”
“No, thanks.”
He slips the cash into his pocket and sets a coaster and a glass in front of me before he grabs the bottle.
“Tell me when,” he says as he pours the first shot.
I tap the edge when there’s about three fingers of whiskey. Then I drain the glass in one shot. We repeat the process twice more before he sets the bottle down on the bar.
“You’ll be taking a cab outta here.”
I salute him. “Aye, coach.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “She must’ve screwed you over real good.”
I pour myself another hefty shot and raise my glass. “That she did.”
He leaves me to my wallowing. My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out and drop it on the bar, watching the screen light up. The contact reads DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I wish I was smart enough to take my own advice, but apparently I’m not.
There are eleven new messages. I’m sure they’re all quite lovely. As much as I know I shouldn’t look at them, I don’t know how long I can contain my curiosity.
Tash will be gone tomorrow, back to LA. If I can wait until she’s on a plane, I won’t run the risk of trying to see her again. I hate the panicky feeling that thought brings. I hate that I almost regret not fucking her. I hate that I’ve already forgiven her for slapping me across the face.
I flip my phone over so I can’t see the alerts as the texts keep coming. There’s a fight on the TV over the bar, so I focus my attention there instead. I wish I had a place to put all this anger. Since I don’t, I get this feeling in my spine—it’s a tingle that turns into a burn. Everything starts to feel hot, like I’m a volcano preparing to erupt.
I pour another shot, hoping it’ll dull the fire. Sometimes I don’t know what to do when I get like this. And Tash makes me worse. I know this. Every time I see her now it takes a few days for me to get things back under control. Last time I did five thousand dollars worth of damage to my bedroom.