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I came to a standstill in front of the two girls who stood so differently from the others. Contrasting shades of brown hair were pulled back from their faces, their big eyes staring up at me.
Shuffling in the pockets of my denim pants, I pulled out a wad of bills—close to four hundred.
“There’s no after-party tonight.” The scent of alcohol jumped from my breath and hit them in the face. “Leave with the crowd and get yourself something nice to eat.” I dumped the money in the shorter one’s waiting hands and gave a nod to the other girl, who looked to be her big sister.
Her silver dress caught my eye, but it didn’t do anything to my body or senses, not like the last time I’d seen this exact outfit...on someone else.
My girl.
My eyes rolled down over the girl’s lack of curves. I kept the pity from my expression as my eyes met the unpainted toes that peeped from some kind of heeled pump, giving her height a boost.
I swallowed, remembering how much I preferred this look with sneakers.
She didn’t look like Cat.
Cat, who I’d missed so fucking much for almost three damn years. Cat, who I couldn’t believe was there last night. Cat, who I’d probably never see again because she might be dead.
I’d met her three years ago tonight.
One thousand and ninety-five days.
That was a lot of obsessing. A long fucking time for someone to own my mind, and she did every time I fought the urge to block her out with some kind of powder, pill, or injection.
She’d be in my head, judging me, begging me for a different future.
The rules didn’t apply today. I’d given into temptations again, after being clean for years.
Last night was too fucking much for me. Her possible death was too fucking much for me.
My nose was still fucking tingling from inhaling the only thing I’d put in my depleting system since breakfast time yesterday morning.
She was all I could think about—covered in mud, with blood on her pretty face.
I blinked away her image. Fast feet took me to the other side of the stage, far from the dress that reminded me too much of my little obsession, and I drank the drink waiting for me. Vodka that I’d hidden in a water bottle.
The cut on my lip from my rebellion last night split open for the third time today as I wrapped my lips around the rim of the bottle.
Daniel’s face invaded my vision, but the words he screamed were soundless to me. I rolled my eyes, opting to see the memories that tormented me flashing in my brain over the image of him pulling at his hair in front of my face. His fingers dug into my cheeks, into my scar, and yanked me to face him as I turned to look away. Still in my mouth, the bottle hit an incisor, threatening its perfectly square appearance. But that didn’t bother me as much as Daniel’s spit, continuously hitting me in the face as his stress flew out of his mouth.
I took another gulp before dumping the bottle on the floor. It tumbled, rolled, and spilled most of what was left all over the stage, and I was too hammered to care, leaving it for someone else to clean up.
I got to my feet, shrugging off Daniel and steadying the wobble in my knees, hiding it well, just like always, and I pushed my way past security and took the back steps, leaving the stage.
A text message vibrated against my leg—Alerion.
Fuck it. You can have your little slut. If it’ll keep you in line. She’ll be at the Bellmonte Hotel by 12! You can reimburse whatever the fuck she costs me. Do not be fucking late.
And stupid me, I believed his lies, drank a little more to calm my nerves over the idea of finally getting what I wanted—what I needed—in life, and I turned up to the hotel where Cat wouldn’t be.
The memory didn’t help. It only heightened my anxiety. I needed air. I didn’t wait for the car to stop. I was out the door, calling back, “Keep it running if you’re hanging around!”
Dec shouted something back, but I lost it to the wind rushing past my aided ear and the ringing inside the other. He was probably screaming to me that he had to wait because Rothbart had no cars hanging around out front.
The door was open, leading me to believe someone had dropped them off, and ran out to avoid the showdown, as I suspected.
I’d said it before. I’d say it again—traffickers valued lives—their own.
A creaky floorboard welcomed me upon entering the house. The living room greeted me from the right, and that same tragedy was playing through the docked MP3. Blood stains had been stripped from the wall. The dark paint, stripped and reapplied.
