Page 147 of Tempting Wyatt
Funny that she has Isaac’s number when it was Asher thatalways had the soft spot for her. Or maybe a hard one. I don’t really know, I just vaguely recall him and my mom buying Christmas gifts for the Harris kids because their mom was usually trashed or missing in action.
Either way, this girl doesn’t need my bullshit. Plenty of people give her a hard time already. Besides, she’s right—I can’t drive like this.
“Tell Isaac to pick me up at the liquor store,” I tell her as I stand to leave, knowing I can make it on foot before they close if I hurry. “And tell Mick I stopped in.”
“Be careful, Wyatt,” Brooklyn says gently.
I wave her concern away with a hand as I leave. I tried being careful. Didn’t work.
Now I’m being reckless, because fuck it.
I make it to the liquor store barely five minutes before they close. The old man working the counter frowns at me when the door chimes, announcing my entrance.
I don’t bother with an apology. I’ll be quick.
I know what I need, and I’m hoping like hell the bourbon will burn out what the hard work didn’t.
The scent of her in my bed. The sounds she made, reverberating off the walls and into my skull, like a broken jukebox stuck on repeat. With the overlay of Isaac’s words looping in my mind like an annoyingly catchy jingle, it’s too damn much.
I need it out. I need her gone. From my mind, my memory, and my fucking soul. Even if I have to incinerate my insides to eradicate her.
She’s leaving in the morning.
The thought isn’t as comforting as it should be. Just another trail of gasoline fueling the inferno inside of me.
I spot what I’m seeking and cut across the store in a fewshort strides. Grabbing the neck of the bottle of my favorite bourbon offers a minuscule amount of relief. A sprinkler on a five-alarm fire.
I slam the bottle on the counter harder than I mean to. Pull my wallet out of my back pocket and yank out two fifty-dollar bills.
“Keep the change,” I offer as the old guy places my bourbon in a paper sack. I’m so eager for the sweet relief of numbness that I wish he’d just hand it over.
When I reach for the sack, the old man holds it out of my grasp. What the fuck? I don’t say it out loud, but there’s no doubt he sees the pissed-off inquiry on my face.
“You one of the Logan boys?” he asks, adjusting his glasses with the hand that isn’t holding my freedom hostage.
Grinding my molars together until they nearly break, I answer with the last quarter ounce of patience I possess. “Yes, sir.”
“Shame about your father. He was a good man.”
I nod, hating how much I understand Caleb right now. Why he turns to destroying himself when it hurts too fucking much to feel anything else. There’s nowhere to put this pain, so I have to burn it out of me. But this has never been me or my way of dealing with shit. I don’t let the weakness win. Ever.
I’ve always been the one who turns to work, who gets shit done, no matter what. Pushes through it all by being productive. Numbs the pain with hard labor, not hard liquor.
Until now.
I tried that already. I worked myself into the fucking ground today. I should’ve been dead on my feet by sundown. But it didn’t help. The minute I stepped into my house, I could see her. Smell her. Hear her.
The bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen fucking table.
She’s everywhere.
Scorching hot shower didn’t help. Just more memories in there. If I could burn the whole fucking place down, I would, let the ashes settle and start fresh tomorrow. But I can’t. So, this will have to do.
I nod at the bourbon. “Can I have that now?”
He eyes my bloodied knuckles. I might’ve had an altercation with a stable gate that refused to close correctly. The cashier glances at the cash on the counter. Then looks me straight in my face, like he sees someone he recognizes. Weird, since I’m pretty sure we’ve never met.
“Whatever it is, this won’t help,” he tells me evenly, his voice gravelly with decades of finding out the hard way.
