Page 88 of Negotiating Tactics

“Where the fuck did I put it?” I grumbled.

I was on my hands and knees, rummaging through the pantry looking for the last bottle of scotch.

“Fuck!” I said when I came up empty.

I crawled out of the pantry, deciding that standing wasn’t the smartest choice.

The place was a wreck, but that wasn’t too surprising.

After all, I had subsisted on pizza and scotch for the last few days.

I had sent Dominic’s cleaning service away every day, and they had thankfully gotten the hint.

I made it to the couch, then looked at the empty bottle tilted off to one side.

“Guess I found it,” I grumbled, pulling myself onto the couch.

I thought rich people were supposed to have everything at their fingertips, so I was pissed at Dominic for not stocking his place better.

Not that I needed more booze.

I’d drank enough in the last couple days to last me years, but when the buzz started to fade—like now—and reality started to set in, retreating to drink was the only choice.

Because I had fucked up the best thing to ever happen to me.

Not on purpose, but that didn’t matter.

The anger—and the heartbreak—in Alex’s expression had haunted me over these days.

And knowing that I had put that expression on her face was the worst of all.

My intentions had been pure, but what the fuck did that matter?

It didn’t.

Not when I found myself here.

Without her.

I closed my eyes, a feeble attempt to get the room to stop spinning.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was dusk.

Some of the pounding in my head had receded, and I risked sitting up.

Was as pleased as I could be in that moment that the room wasn’t spinning.

I pushed myself off the couch, then stumbled up the stairs, again regretting I was out of booze.

Desperate for anything to distract from the searing ache and emptiness that I felt now.

But hiding wasn’t going to change anything.

I had never hidden from anything, and I wouldn’t start now.

So I had fucked up.

I’d get over it and get over her.

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