Ashy C: This is my daily message to remind you that I love you and I’m here when you’re ready to talk.
The bartender sets my drink down and I swallow the entire thing in one fell swoop.
“Want another one?” he asks, his brows knitted together in confusion.
“Actually, I’ll take a double shot of whatever you have that’s the strongest,” I shout over the blaring music.
I love you.
The bartender raises a brow but doesn’t argue, grabbing the shot glass and setting it in front of me. He pours the liquor, and I down it before he’s even had time to put the bottle back. The liquor stings its way down my esophagus and when it reaches my belly, it feels like it’s on fire. My throat and stomach burn, but I welcome the pain. Craving it.
I’m here when you’re ready to talk.
“Another one?” he asks, holding up the bottle.
“Yep, keep ’em coming.”
“Bad day?”
“Bad week,” I tell him, downing the shot. “You know what, can I just keep the bottle?”
He laughs. “This is a two-thousand-dollar bottle of liquor.”
I pull my credit card out and drop it onto the bar. “I’m good for it.”
He nods with a smirk. “It’s all yours.”
After I pour another shot and swallow it back, I glance at my phone.
This is my daily message…
I already knew there were more, but I haven’t read them. I close my eyes, refusing to go there. If I read them, I’m going to want to respond. And then I’ll have to deal with everything.
I open my eyes, and the phone is still there, lying on the bar top, beckoning me.
Pick me up. Read me.
Oh, great, Mia, in your drunken state, your phone is talking to you. I roll my eyes, and just as I’m about to pour myself another shot, my phone lights up with another message.
Ashy C: I miss you more than Skittles and gummy bears.
His words are my breaking point, and before I can stop myself, my fingers are firing off a text.
Me: You don’t love me! If you did, you wouldn’t have hurt me. Now stop messaging me. I’m at The Brasserie having a good time without you. I hope your Skittles and gummy bears keep you warm at night.
There, take that!
He certainly doesn’t need me to keep him warm.
And I don’t need him either.
I have a two-thousand-dollar bottle of gin and bartender eye-candy to do that for me.
I’m okay.
I may not be enough for anyone else, but I’m enough for me.
“Fuck fuck-boys!” I call out to the bartender, raising my bottle.
He laughs and tips his head in agreement.
I’m doing fine and dandy all by myself, thank you very much.
The Brasserie.
One of Mom’s favorite hoity-toity hangouts. I know exactly where this place is and I’ll be damned if I let this opportunity pass me up. I take the world’s fastest shower and dress in something that’ll grant me access into that rich bitch martini lounge. Black slacks, a black button-up, and a slate-colored tie. I hate dressing up, but if I want to go get the girl, I need to actually be able to get in to get her. I break the rules with my black Doc Marten lace-up combat boots because if I have to crawl into society’s box, at least I can leave the lid off.
I shove my wallet in my pocket, grab my leather jacket from the closet, and snag my keys in record time. It’s cold as fuck outside, so I’m glad I wore a jacket. I’m thrumming with pent-up energy, though, too wired to be cold.
I’m going to see her.
Mia.
My Mia.
I’ll make this right. I know I can. I just need her in my arms so I can hold her. Our severed connection has left me hemorrhaging without her. Mia needs to know that I can’t exist without her in my life. I’ll take her any way I can get her.
This week, I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m a player. Worse than I gave Brayden shit for when I first met him. I use people for my own entertainment. It’s sick and fucked up. Hell, I even called my damn therapist this week to ask why I’m that way. It led to a surprisingly eye-opening session that helped me realize I’m a self-destructive shithead. That explosive behavior of mine draws people close enough that when I detonate, they’re all destroyed along with me.
Mia.
Dad.
So many others.
I hurt people because I like to hurt myself. They become casualties of my destruction. I need to learn to stop wrecking my own heart, and as a result, saving those around me.
Baby steps.
It only solidifies my desire to pursue my degree in psychology. If people like me could figure out how to handle ourselves, imagine how many others like us we could also help. For the first time since I started therapy all those years ago, I had respect for the person trying to help me.
I’m not delusional enough to think I’m going to magically be a better person, but this is the first time I wanted to be better. I had someone I needed desperately to be better for.
Mia.
She deserves to have a best friend who will keep trying to do right by her, even when he fucks up. And if it leads to something more, then so be it. If it doesn’t, I’ll be perfectly content seeing her smile directed at me and to have my gamer buddy back.
Mia is like the sun.
Bright and hot and penetrating.
She gets inside you and lights up all the shadowed corners of the darkest parts of you.
For some strange-ass reason, she decided to walk into my life and shine her sparkly light on me. When you’re used to being a cold-hearted dick, it’s a little alarming to grow so warm just by being exposed to another person.
Mia is my world.
A huge piece that completes the puzzle that is me, pulling all the fragmented, jagged parts together and making them somehow fit and make sense.
I’m not whole without her.
In no time, I’m pulling my Audi up to the curb in front of a long-ass line. I fling open the door, cringing against the biting cold, and then pull out my wallet to meet the approaching valet guy.
“Keep it running or drive it around the block a couple of times. I’ll be out in a few,” I tell him as I flip open my wallet. “Here. Keep it warm.”
He smiles at the handful of hundreds I thrust at him. “Sure, man. It can stay for a few.”
I hand him my keys and then trot to the front of the line. A man dressed in a suit arches a brow at me, daring me to try and enter.
“Wendy Worthington-Carter. She’s my mom,” I bark at him. “I’m just going in to fetch my girl and I’ll be out of here.”
The guy’s face curls into a devious smirk. “Tell your mom Bo says hi.” He winks in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Fucking gross.
“Yeah, dude. I’ll tell her.”
He waves me inside. I scan my gaze across the room, looking for the hottest brunette in this place. Eventually, I settle my stare on the saddest girl to ever drink expensive-ass gin straight from a bottle.
My girl.
I stalk through the crowd, a man on a mission. I’m almost to her when a snobby bitch steps right in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” Sasha sneers, curling her lip up at me.
I hate this bitch.
“I’m taking my girl home.” I grit my teeth. “Move, princess.”