Page 48 of Her Dark Angel

He holds his hands up in defense, the smile slipping from his face. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I know you said you wanted to be alone today, but I thought maybe you might want to come back to a little party since I know you’re always down for a good time.”

With a grunt, I toss Johnny backward until he falls onto the couch. “Get everyone out of my fucking house now. Including you. I want everyone out. And get those bottles of Budweiser out of my fucking fridge.”

“Come on, Nash, let’s talk about—” His gaze snaps to my bloody hands fisted in his shirt. A tremble vibrates throughout his body as his eyes widen.

“Now!” I shout, my eyes boring into his. “My patience is waning fucking thin, so if every single goddamn person isn’t out that door in the next sixty seconds, you won’t want to find out what happens next.”

That seems to do the trick. Johnny is up on his feet and rushing past me as fast as lightning. All I can do is stare at Hudson sitting on the couch, concern etched across his features. His gray eyes regard me from behind his messy hair. The music stops mid-song and Johnny’s voice sounds throughout the lower floor of the house, instructing people to leave immediately.

Hudson slowly stands from the couch and reaches out his hand to rest on my shoulder. “Nash, are you okay?”

I shrug his hand off with a grunt. “I’m fine. I just want to be alone.”

He nods. “Okay, we’ll leave. But if you need anything, please call me, okay?”

I don’t say anything because I’m not going to call him. I’m not going to call anyone. All I want is for there to be silence in my house and my fucking head for just one goddamn night. Is that too much to ask for?

Iris stands and wraps her hand around Hudson’s bicep. “Come on, Hud. Nash needs to be alone, so let’s give him that.” Her voice is as soft as butter.

I could kiss the woman on the forehead for saying that. At least someone in this fucking house understands what I want.

Hudson doesn’t utter a word as he pats me on the back and follows Iris out of the house with the rest of the crowd. Protests over leaving so soon and voices of displeasure follow me as I wander into the kitchen. There is trash all over the kitchen bench—empty beer cans, food wrappings, articles of clothing, and worst of all, a fucking used condom.

As much as I want to beat the shit out of Johnny for going behind my back to throw a party and then leaving me with the clean-up, all I have the strength to do is grab a bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard and walk upstairs to my bedroom.

The room is cold and dark when I enter. Flipping on the light switch, I flick the cap off the top of the bottle and bring the warm glass to my lips. The burn of the brown liquor flowing down my throat is a welcome sensation—one I have been craving all night when the little devil chewed me out for asking the waitress for a bottle of Jack at dinner.

My eyes find the nightstand beside my bed littered with half-empty cigarette packs and a bag of cocaine I have yet to touch. The usual itch in my stomach returns upon seeing the white powder. It’s a bad fucking habit, I know. But it’s one I can’t break, no matter how many times I tell myself I’ll fight harder next time. When next time rolls around, I repeat the same words until it’s a never-ending fucking cycle.

You’re weak, Nash.

Drinking and taking drugs is the only escape I can turn to right now because I can’t bury myself deep inside a woman due to the contract with the little devil. Not that I want to right now anyway. All I want is to drink the rest of the contents in this bottle and snort so much blow it knocks me out until tomorrow when I have to live this fucking life all over again.

Without an escape, I’m worried for my mind and the dark places it could try to lead me to.

You’ll never be good enough.

Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I set the bottle of Jack down on the nightstand, the dark wood starting to chip away at the edges. I grab the bag of cocaine and dump out enough of the powder to form a few lines. I’m going to need a little extra kick to get the image of ocean-blue eyes filled with concern out of my goddamn head.

Before I can grab the credit card lying next to a cigarette packet, my phone begins to ring loudly in my pocket. I consider not answering it since it’s 10 pm, but it could be James calling me with information regarding Dark Angel or my individual schedule. It wouldn’t be the first time.

With a huff, I reach into my pocket and pull out the device. Pressing it to my ear, I say, “What do you want?”

A breath of silence follows my words and I almost end the call because I’m not in the mood to deal with this shit when a familiar gruff voice filters down the line.

“Nash… it’s me.”

No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening right now. It can’t be.

“I was hoping that you had given my request some more thought?—”

“You can go to hell, asshole,” I seethe into the phone, my anger now reaching boiling point. “I have told you multiple times not to contact me and here you are still fucking doing it.”

“But Nash, I’m sorry for all?—”

“No, you’re not,” I interject sharply, the plastic phone creaking under the weight of my grip bearing down on the pathetic device. “You’re not sorry for anything. You don’t care about me. You never have.”

Is this fucker serious right now? The audacity to continue calling me after all these years, seeking something from me now that I’m famous and have access to anything I want is pathetic. I should’ve known he would come crawling back to my feet the moment he saw my face in the news when Dark Angel became a household name. It’s just who he is—a fucking leech.

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