Page 50 of Meet Me in the Valley
If I try, will he deny me because I hurt him?
I have to believe it’s not too late. I’ll ignore the revolving door of women he has on call, putting enough faith in our connection and friendship that I can be enough for him. The doubt from before doesn’t sting as much, but it’s there, lingering. But I can be stronger. I can overcome it. Iwillovercome it.
Like Audrey said, I’m a brave, bad ass bitch.
With my whole chest and heart, I give Audrey the most honest answer I can muster. The most important truth I’m done lying about.
“I’ll try. No regrets.”
Chapter Fifteen
LOGAN
The first time I had whiskey, I was far too young. Dad used to keep his liquor cabinet unlocked, and back in those days, the bottles were plenty. I was thirteen when my parents had another one of their world-war blowouts. It was the same song and dance. Mom screams at Dad, Dad screams at Mom, Mom storms out of the house to go God knows where, and Dad reaches into the cabinet to pour himself an amber glass of denial.
For the most part, Dad had self-control—even though his marriage was crumbling and slipping through his fingers as he tried to grab hold of a woman who ran off more nights than stayed home. He only used whiskey to ease the ache from the constant fighting. But it never got to a point where I couldn’t recognize him. Even through his tired, sad—apologetic—eyes, I could still see Dad. So I wasn’t concerned. He always stopped after two drinks. But that night, he didn’t.
I was thirteen when Dad slipped into a deep slumber on the living room recliner, the shadows of whatever late-night show flashing on his tired face as he slept like the dead. He never slept in the recliner. He’d usually pull himself together and drag himself to bed, leaving the light above the kitchen stove on for if and when my mom decided to come home.
The liquor cabinet was wide open, and Dad had just bought a dozen cans of cola that were lined neatly in the door of the fridge. That night, I poured myself a hefty, tall glass of Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke. I remember the burn from the alcohol trailing down my throat; it caused me to wince. But then the sweetness from the Coke remedied the burn, and I finished the entire drink in less than two minutes.
I passed out cold on the rug in my room, never making it to my bed that night. I threw up for most of the following day, swearing to myself I’d never drink a Jack and Coke ever again.
Swear now broken, I watch the bartender pour my fourth drink of the night—that same depressing amber liquid I watched Dad pour into a glass-filled tumbler. More whiskey than Coke, per my request to numb myself. Thirteen-year-old me would be so disappointed at my drink of choice, but I don’t care right now. I’m doing what I do best. Running away from my problems without giving a damn about who I hurt in the process.
Thanks for that, Mom.
I’m close to plastered, the voices of my coworkers surrounding me loud and booming in my eardrums. Once Roy bought a round of shots, I knew I’d be done for.
Tia and I haven’t talked all day. The deep well of turmoil I’m stuck in is too deep to crawl out of, and here I am, stuck at the bottom of the pit where the only person who can get me out isher.
I thank the bartender with a quick nod as he passes me the glass of self-loathing I ordered. The warmth from the whiskey does little to ease the ache in the center of my chest, no matter how hefty my gulps are.
Tia’s sweet, soothing voice could heal me better than the smoothness of this whiskey. I’m desperate to have her in my ear right now if I can’t have her here in person. With drunkendetermination, I fumble my cell phone out of my pocket, fingers already typing out her name on instinct.
Please, give me reprieve from my pathetic wallowing in the middle of the bar.
As my finger hovers over the call button, a set of ruby red, manicured nails grip my wrist, pushing my phone out of the way.
Krista.
There’s no open stool next to me, so with confidence, she sits straight on my lap. She’s still in the tiny skirt from earlier, and I hate that my eyes cast down on her bare thighs as she makes herself comfortable.
Why I don’t shove her off of me, I’ll never know. My brain is hazy from the whiskey, my heart cracked from my unresolved feelings for Tia, and whatever I have left of my morals is out of reach, walking out the door, flipping me the bird.
“Hey, stud,” she drawls into my ear, causing me to shiver as her breath hits the shell of my ear.
Get her off your lap, you dick.
My hands grip her hips on their own accord, and she whimpers at my touch. I don’t want my body to react, but it’s betraying me—for the second time today—waking my hardening length under her thighs.
Her scent floods my nostrils, making the room spin faster from the flowery smell that’s so far off from Tia. It feels all wrong, yet my fingers dig into Krista’s hips, unable to shove her off of me.
“Quit messing around, Krista,” I slur. I make a piss-poor effort to nudge her off, but she anchors herself to me, wrapping her slender arms around my neck.
The blonde wisps of her hair tickle my jaw as she leans in to whisper, “The way your dick is hard tells me a different story.”
Her voice drips with seduction as she discreetly rolls her hips over my dick. The tip of her tongue traces along my ear, nippinglightly on my earlobe. Inside, I’m screaming,this is all wrong.But my eyes close to slow the spinning. I force my eyelids open, desperately searching around me for someone to pull me out of her temptation. All of my colleagues—Roy included—are too far into their debauchery to throw me a life jacket. I’m drowning in Krista-infested waters, and the one life boat I need to get me out of here sees me as a friend.
