Page 118 of Uncharted

“But not at you. You didn’t do anything.”

He nodded. “But not at me,” he echoed, setting down his glass. “You can yell and scream all you want. And I will listen.” He engulfed me in his arms and kissed my head. “I’m here for you. Use me as your outlet all you want. Just not as your target.”

I laughed against him. “It’s a good thing you’re so strong and resilient,” I mumbled into his chest.

He squeezed me tighter. “It’s a good thing you are too.”

I let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m gonna take a shower and change out of these wet clothes.”

“Okay,” I said, inhaling his warm, heady fragrance before he retreated to the bathroom.

In his absence, I finished my glass. Then I poured another. It was stupid and foolish to try and drown myself in alcohol, but it numbed my pain. It quieted my thoughts. It made me forget for a while.

Until the next call from Davis came.

* * *

The one solid lead we had—the guy in critical condition we were hoping would come through for us—flatlined.

He was a lieutenant for López. The one who got scooped up in the tunnel. Now we only had one hope left. The guy in the coma. But we didn’t know who he was or what role he played in the organization. No prints in the database, no ID, no known connections. Other than the fact he was in with the Tiburónes.

Tyler was scrubbing his hair with a towel when he came out. “I was thinking we could order a pizza.”

“Not hungry,” I murmured from the couch.

Out of my peripheral, I saw as he picked up the bottle eyeballing the amount of liquor left. “You need to eat something.”

“Not hungry,” I repeated.

“How many glasses have you had?”

“Lost count.” I hiccupped, then shrugged. “Enough to dull the pain.”

“Marisa, you can’t drink the pain away.”

My snort was antagonistic. “I sure as hell can try.”

The cushion dipped as Tyler sat down next to me. “Trust me, it won’t work.”

“It’s working just fine for me.”

“I can’t sit here and watch you turn yourself inside out.”

“Then don’t.” My words were harsh.

Instead of fighting, Tyler ignored the insult and pulled me into him. “Baby, talk to me.” The heat of his words against my skin warmed me. But only slightly. “We can figure this out together. What’s going on?”

“Tyler,” I huffed, “I don’t want to talk.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“You.” I crawled on top of him and straddled his lap.

“Marisa, I’d be more than happy to take you up on that. If you were”—he was fighting my kisses—“sober. But you’re drunk.”

“So what?”

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