Page 95 of Mine to Ruin

On Thursday, Tara calls and says she got the job at her dream gallery. I need a break from moping around, so I change and meet her for drinks.

I drink my sorrow away and when Kendrick and Brandon join us later, I am beyond tipsy.

“No more drinks for you,” Brandon says.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” I pout and sigh.

Kendrick says, “He does love you.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

He wouldn’t be able to stay away for three miserable days if he did.

“Let’s dance.” I grab Tara’s hand, and when my legs threaten to give out on me, we return to the table.

Kendrick looks on the verge of beating someone up and shoves the phone in his jeans, grumbling.

“I wouldn’t want to mess with you.” I giggle, swaying, and three pairs of hands shoot out to hold me.

“We’re going home,” Tara says.

“But I am having fun.”

They drag me outside, and when we step inside the hotel, Tara and Brandon support me while Kendrick places the key card in the elevator. I stumble as the elevator door closes, and I wave at my friends and say, “I am fine. Nothing happened.”

My heart constricts, thinking maybe Kian won’t return home because of me. With my heart cracking, I conclude it’s time to leave. He doesn’t want me here.

I stumble through the door and apologize. When the door doesn’t respond, I say, “It’s rude not to answer back.”

The silence reminds me of his absence, and tears fill my eyes and I wipe those liquid traitors off. I drag my feet to the bar, grab a bottle of his whiskey and crawl upstairs. My back slides down the wall in the walk-in closet, and I stretch out my legs. I take a swig, the rich and burning taste hitting my taste buds. I groan as I try then give up undressing when my hands remain stuck in the fabric for the third time.

I squeeze my eyes shut when light blinds me then I open them. When they adjust, my heart shoots to my throat.

“You’re drunk,” Kian says gruffly, and my hand flies to my chest, massaging that muscle that aches. Why does he look so good, even with dark circles under his eyes, disheveled hair and stubble?

“You’re home,” I slur, and when I try to get up, everything shifts, and I hit my toe on the counter. He rushes to me, but I shove him away. My toe is red and swollen, and I stare at it, trying to decide what to do next.

Kian opens some drawers in the bathroom, but I remember alcohol numbs the pain, so I take another gulp of whiskey. He snatches the bottle away, and I protest.

He says, the inflection of his voice pulsing with feelings my starved heart must conjure, “You’ve had enough.”

“I decide when I’ve had enough.”

He drops on his knees and lifts my feet. I yelp, and he puts cream on it and bandages my toe. The care he shows knots me up, and I push him off.

“I’m fine.”

“You are hurt.”

“My damn heart is hurt. Will you try to fix that, too?” I can’t believe we’re here because of his damn distrust. Just because he heard me tell Brandon that I love him.

I’m trapped in emotional hell. I was happy and would have shouted my luck from the world’s rooftop. He pulls me up and undresses me, sliding his shirt I had been sleeping in since he left on me.

He carries me to bed, ignoring my protests. Of course he would, when my mouth says one thing, but I’m snuggling into him.

“What were you doing in the closet?”

“I wanted to pack, but I’ll do that tomorrow.”

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