Page 14 of Inevitable Destruction

“See, that right there.” She nods, and I remain still, refusing to speak. I already know what she’s getting at. “No man would deny himself a glimpse at my tits. Unless he were gay.” At that, I drop my gaze to her chest. Her cleavage is visible through the self-made slit in the front of her white, ripped tank top tugged down low.

“Nice tits,” I grunt, fully being a smartass, and she barks out a laugh.

“Thanks, Rhett.” Fiona rolls her eyes. “So, why are you really over here asking for my number?”

“For Jamie.” I look in the direction of my partner to find her eyes locked on the shot glasses in front of her. When she senses our eyes on her, her cheeks blaze red, and she steals my beer, chugging it to distract herself.

“Ah, yeah, she’s cute. Okay.” Fiona grabs a napkin from under the bar top and pulls a sharpie from between her breasts to scribble numbers down before handing it to me with a smile. “Give this to her.”

I take it, crumpling it in my fist, and when I reach my stool, I toss it on the counter in front of Jamie. Her eyes land on the number, and her embarrassed flush deepens.

“Jesus, Rhett. What if she didn’t want to give me her number? Then I never would have been able to come back here.”

“But she did.” I place my ass back on the stool, no longer in the mood to drink. To sit. Or to even fucking be here with Jamie, in this bar, or in this goddamn fucking town.

“Well, thanks.” Jamie takes another sip of my beer then pushes it back in my direction. “I don’t know how you drink that shit. It tastes like ass.”

“No, ass tastes much better, I assure you.” I wrap my fingers around the bottle and pick at the curling label.

Jamie snorts and fixes her bun on the top of her head. “I’m not even surprised you know what ass would taste like.”

“I’m gay, Jame. Obviously, I know what ass tastes like. And maybe if you get over your internalized homophobia, you can, too.”

“Really, Rhett? Jesus.” Jamie smacks my bicep, hard enough to sting. She stands from her stool and grabs the napkin, shoving it in the front pocket of her dark blue slacks. “You’re a fucking dick.” With that, she turns and leaves the bar, typing on her phone as she does. Probably ordering an Uber.

I watch her push through the door, disappearing into the dark. I clench my jaw and run my fingers through my hair, pulling at the strands as I do. I probably shouldn’t have said that, but if I’m being honest, she needed to hear it. As cruel as it sounded, it was the fucking truth.

She has this notion in her head that she needs to be what her parents want her to be, and it’s fucking pathetic. I tell her every chance I get to be who she is. To accept it, and yet, here we are years later, and she still thinks it’s wrong.

How can I have a best friend who believes what I am is wrong?

But she doesn’t believe that. She accepts you for who you are.

Even if she accepts me, she doesn’t accept herself, and that’s even fucking worse.

Like my father. He never knew I was gay because I never told him, and by the time I was ready, he was fucking murdered. He never knew who I truly was, and I’ll never know what he would think about me.

Would he accept me? What I love, who I love?

Except I don’t fucking love anybody. Not anymore.

The last person I loved, apart from Jame, was my Pops. Jamie was merely an exception to the rule I created for myself. What’s the point in opening your heart to someone, only for them to be taken from you without reason? It’s not worth the pain, and frankly, it’s not worth the energy to even try.

“Want another?” I drag my gaze up to Fiona to see her reaching for my now empty beer bottle. I hand it to her with a shake of my head.

“No, I’m good with this.” I reach out and drag the bottle of Jameson Jamie bought toward me. “I’m gonna need a glass.”

“Sure thing.” She sets a tumbler in front of me, and I tip the bottle, watching the amber liquid pour from the tiny, silver opening at the top. When the glass is filled, only a centimeter from the top, I let the bottle slip from my grasp, back to the table with a heavy thud.

Bringing it to my lips, I tip my head back, opening my mouth and my throat, allowing the whiskey to pour straight down my throat. By the time I release the glass from my now numb fingers, my head is swimming, and the room spins. I drag my blurry gaze around the room, noticing quite a few more people have entered, which makes sense since it’s Friday night.

The speakers in each corner of the open room play some loud, upbeat rock song, and I slump forward in my stool, resting my elbows on the bar as I hold my head in my palms. Heat flushes my body, and in this moment, when my mind is clouded and not thinking properly, I allow myself to think about things I know I shouldn’t. And in my state of willful inebriation, I can’t make myself stop.

Dominik Reed.

I know next to nothing about him, other than the fact he is Alexander and Arabella Reed’s son. But that doesn’t stop the constant nagging prickling in the back of my brain. The consuming need to dig up every ounce of dirt on him.

When it comes down to it, he deserves to pay for what his parents did. There’s no other way around it.

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