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John must’ve heard the truth in them, though, because his cruel grin slipped, and he blinked slowly. “You kissed me back. You wanted me. Wanted what I can do to you.”
Maybe.
It was easier not to answer. Instead, he stepped around his old lover and beat a path to the front door. He didn’t run the way he wanted to. It was a confident walk, one with loose limbs and his head held high.
The mask held all the way to the car, all the way back to his small apartment. Once he got home, he zeroed in on the bathroom, turning the shower on blazing hot. He stripped away his club clothes, then climbed in the tiny stall, scouring away the smell of the booze, the smoke, and John.
The hot water barely registered.
He refused to think; he just went through the motions, lathering the soap and rinsing away every touch and every kiss. What he couldn’t wash away was the knowledge of what he’d done—something he swore he’d never do again—which was fall back into John’s arms. Even if he’d stopped things before they went too far, he’d let them start in the first place.
As he scrubbed himself raw, he relived every touch of the man’s hands, body, and mouth at the club tonight, castigating himself for each one.
Hating himself for enjoying it.
It wasn’t until he stepped out—skin tender and red—and put on his PJs that he allowed himself to unpack his feelings over what John had said.
As if anyone else would have you.
Without me, you are nothing.
You have nothing.
He pulled his knees to his chest on his bed, wrapped his arms around them, and rocked gently.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered. “Wrong.”
If he believed it, why was his heart breaking? And why couldn’t he put it back together?
Eyeing the nightstand, he considered the contents inside the drawer. It was only for the worst nights. A last resort.
But this was one of the worst nights, wasn’t it? One of the worst in a long, long time.
Chapter FIVE
Robby
As Robby walked into the chilly, yellow-lit room, he wrinkled his nose against the burnt scent of coffee sitting on the burner too long. It didn’t stop him from pouring himself a cup, but he knew from experience it would taste as bad as it smelled.
It didn’t matter. He always needed something to do with his hands when he attended one of these meetings. For some reason, it made him feel a little less exposed.
Clutching his Styrofoam cup, he shuffled to one of the folding metal chairs laid out in a circle at the center of the room. Lots of chairs to choose from. It looked like a lean night for the N.A. group.
He recognized Thomas, the guy who ran the meetings, from his sporadic visits over the years and acknowledged him with a nod. The guy looked the same, though his craggy face was a little more weathered, and his receding hairline had moved back another inch or so. He had to be pushing fifty now.
Thomas offered a sympathetic smile, like he knew what was going on in Robby’s head. But, of course, Robby wouldn’t be here if life were going well.
Cara, another familiar face, stared down into her lap.
The other three guys were strangers.
Thomas cleared his throat. “Hi, everyone. It’s time to get started.” He stood. “My name is Thomas, and I’m an addict.” He paused. “Heroin. I’ve been clean for ten years now, but you guys keep me accountable.”
He retook his seat and tilted his head at Cara.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m Cara,” she mumbled. “Not sharing tonight.”
Damn. The way she held herself didn’t bode well for the older woman. Last time Robby had seen her, she’d been off the pills for years. She was a mom of two teenagers. If she could fall off the wagon, anyone could.
