Page 66 of Tormented

“What would I have to be jealous of, Abbey?” He smirks, confirming my thoughts.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not stupid, though,” I say, watching the pasta to save from having to look at him. “I know why you’re concerned: because King’s got you up to speed on my bad habits. He wouldn’t have sent me here without at least giving you some warning.”

“When was your last?” he asks quietly.

“Drink?”

“What else, Abbey?”

I study his reflection in the microwave door as the pasta circles slowly. “Today.”

He drops his face into his hand, thinking I can’t see him. “And before that?”

“I made it two weeks.”

“But you’re trying, right?”

“Rich coming from you,” I snipe. The guy wrecked his bike a few years back riding drunk.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” The microwave signals its end, and I pull the hot pasta out, thankful for the distraction. “If I told you I was trying, would you believe me? Or would you think I’m just saying what you want to hear?”

Truth is, I am trying to stay sober. Thanks to King’s support, and the fact he’s kept my problem on the down low, I’ve managed to at least admit I have an issue. Well, one I can fix anyway. Alcoholism is the least of my worries in the grand scheme of things.

“You know we’re only assholes about it because we care, right?” Tap levels.

“Yeah, I know.” Also know I wouldn’t have picked alcohol back up if it wasn’t for the head fuck Sawyer gave me.

Withholding my past is half of where my problems with the drink started. There’s something infinitely easier about drinking your woes away for a few hours, maybe a day, rather than having to try and talk it out with somebody who couldn’t possibly understand. Counselors, well-meaning friends in the club, they don’t know what it was like. They don’t know what I came from before I fell at Apex’s feet and found the mercy of a devil to help me.

How could they know when they weren’t there?

How do I explain what those kinds of experiences do to your head?

I can’t. Which is why I want to dissect Sawyer, find out if his brain plays the same tricks, if it skips the same cog. Find out how he keeps it from breaking down entirely.

But without sharing a single part of my own.

Tall order, right?

“I’ll leave you to eat in peace.” Tap pushes off the counter, and hesitates at the door. “You’re staying on the cot in my room tonight.”

“Why?” I ask around a mouthful. “Don’t trust your own men?”

He huffs heavily out his nose. “One in particular. One that’s not mine.”

“Sawyer,” I helpfully fill in.

“You might think it’s great to find someone as scarred as you are, but it never works out. I’ve seen what happens when you mix two explosive cocktails, and it doesn’t end well . . . for anyone.”

“Advice taken.” I stir the pasta absently, avoiding his gaze.

“Night, Abbey.”

“Night, Tap.”

---