Page 27 of Bitter Truths

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. More than anything, I want him to feel what it’s like to be me. I’ve been reduced to my basic parts. I’m empty. My soul was ripped from my chest and tossed aside like trash. After, I was left broken in the dirt.”

It’s silent, and with a smile, I glance at Aaron. “Sorry, I guess I’m being a little dramatic.”

“Not at all,” he says, searching my gaze. “What you feel is what you feel. But don’t let anyone take away your fire, chica. No guy is worth that.”

Taking a deep breath, I nod my agreement.

“Well, maybe you just need a distraction,” he says, waggling his brows, which makes me laugh.

The place is hopping when we arrive, and immediately, we head to the dance floor where I lose myself, closing my eyes and feeling the rhythm in my bones until everything falls away—until it’s just me and the beat.

Over the summer, I slowly reintroduced music into my life, starting with beats and tones that wouldn’t immediately remind me of that night. From there, I segued into the music that wouldn’t freeze me up. Now, I can hear most songs without falling into a black hole. Not that I don’t struggle, but I can move with the ill feelings and work around them when they arise. It’s a relief to have found this piece of me again that went missing after the incident because for a while there, the bass music made my skin positively crawl.

Besides, here is where I can escape when I don’t want to think; just be. Sometimes I crave it probably more than I should. I mean, there’s a shit ton swirling around in my brain these days. I can hardly be blamed for seeking refuge.

“I’m gonna hit the head and get a drink,” Aaron shouts in my ear after we’ve danced for a good hour.

Nodding, I turn away and close my eyes as he wanders off. I’m here to decompress, and thinking of Griffin is not giving me peaceful vibes, so I push them away and focus on my surroundings.

The crowd closes in around the space Aaron left, and with a small smile, I raise my head with my eyes closed and sway to the music, feeling the beat all the way to my toes. But a trickle of unease dances down my spine when someone presses against me and grinds against my back.

Still, I move with the sensation because I’m determined now to grab onto this and use it as a piece of me I can take back. I choose to dance here, and I choose to bump and grind to the music, which is freeing after so much time hiding behind my darkness.

I also choose to allow some amorous dick to press his erection into my ass because I’m just a normal girl dancing in a stupid club. With this in mind, I paste a smile on my face and look over my shoulder, but my lungs seize when I find Griffin behind me.

He smiles, but the affectation is off because his eyes are glassy and unfocused. Searching his face, I stiffen when he wraps an arm around my waist.

“Hals,” he slurs, the sour stench of alcohol wafting to my nose.

Spinning in his embrace, I look him over with a crinkled brow. Griffin parties, yes, but I’ve never seen him drunk, not since our freshman year of high school.

By that time, he had iced me out so completely, I could only watch from afar when he and Max downed shots in our living room.

I don’t know what inspired the drink fest, but it’s one of the few times I saw the real Griffin or the one I thought was real.

He cornered me near the bathroom and pressed me into the wall, nuzzling into my neck as he said, “So fucking soft.”

My brain fizzled under the contact, and with a pounding heart, I turned my head, afraid to feel when I knew it would end in more pain. He stiffened and stepped back before walking away without a backward glance.

Now he’s standing before me once again, and the sight scrambles my insides. Couldn’t he look less than perfect just once?

I eye his chest in my face and clear my throat, my fingertips tingling with the need to touch the skin just a flimsy piece of fabric away.

But he stumbles, breaking me from my reverie, and I grab his arm. “Griff? Are you drunk?”

“Nope,” he says with a silly grin.

“Hmm.” I grab his arm to lead him from the dance floor, but he won’t budge. “Griff . . .”

“Dance with me,” he breathes, and I eye him dubiously.

“Why?”

“Because it feels good.” He stands up straight, a frown creasing his brow, before he grabs me up and grinds against me.

I tip my head back at the sensation and an immediate ache forms in my core. He’s drunk and still sporting a hefty erection. Fuck me.

---