Page 81 of The Fix

One would think, after dealing with Toby and working endlessly, I’d want a piece of the quiet life. That I’d be dying for the peace and complete lack of continued auditory stimulation.

But tonight … it just feels empty. Hollow.

Looking around my studio apartment, with all its tall ceilings and exposed brick walls, I feel more lost than ever.

It’s so quiet that it’s loud.

There’s a small voice tickling the back of my brain, telling me to pick up my phone and dial a particular bassist’s number, even if it’s just to see what he’s been up to.

Wheeling around, I locate the device sitting silent on the arm of the couch and nibble at my bottom lip.

Did he eat anything?

Nonsense. I’m not the man’s keeper. He can take care of himself.

But would he come over?

I shake my head because why would Toby Jeffers want to come over to my apartment? Why should I care what he’s doing? He’s back home, with his band, and probably raising Cain in all kinds of ways that I’m going to have to deal with in the morning.

Maybe it would be best to check in, at least …

Does he miss me?

My eyes go wide as I suck in a breath.

“What am I doing?” I ask aloud and shudder against the chill raking over my own skin, the idea absolutely ludicrous.

I do not do this. I do not chase after anyone that does not wish to be caught.

I do not fawn over men with baggage bigger than their equipment, and I especially don’t violate my own rules by sleeping with anyone I work with.

Except you already did that, Anna.

I growl into the open space and abandon the phone for the fresh linens in my bedroom. I slip into my pajamas, the comfy, stretchy kind, and stomp my way to the fridge in my open concept kitchen. It reminds me too much of the cabin with how easily I can see my couch from the counter, the breakfast bar the only thing separating me from the furniture.

I release my frustration with another audible sound and toss the water bottle onto the counter.

Wine. I need wine.

With stiff fingers, I retrieve the bottle and opt to skip the glass for drinking straight from the bottle. After the first long pull, I stare at the liquid swishing around inside, leaving long legs of droplets down the smooth surface.

Liquid I’ve now contaminated by drinking straight from the source without a single second thought.

Who am I?

Counting my shaky breaths, I walk to the sink and tip the bottle until the red splashes against the metal and swirls its way down the drain.

I have no idea who I am and I don’t know when that happened.

Retrieving the backup wine I’ve had in the cabinet just as long, I uncork the bottle. It, too, finds its way to the sink where I empty the contents down the drain.

I’m elbows deep into scrubbing the sink clean with a prickling to the backs of my eyes when the beeping of my phone breaks the unbearable silence.

A wave of relief washes over me as I scurry across the tile to the device, my thoughts finally silenced.

But then the name flashing across the screen twists my stomach up so tight I’m pretty sure I’m going to see that drink of wine all over again.

I swipe to answer with shaking fingers, my heart in my throat. “Hello?”

---