Page 319 of Sin With Me
“Brother, what the hell?” Graham yelled.
“Get the fuck out! I don’t want anyone in here until I’m ready.”
Graham opened his mouth. Alastair growled, picked up another book, and threw it at him.
“Get the fuck out!” Alastair shouted again.
Graham scowled, but he closed the door. Alastair could hear him tell people to leave him alone, and it was a good thing. He was too close to losing any control he had left. He might shoot anyone—even his family. He threw things until he was tired and then looked at the destruction of his office. He walked to the bar, grabbed a glass, and filled it with whatever his hand touched first. He slammed that down and kept going until he felt the alcohol start to affect his body.
He poured one more drink and sat on the sofa. He stared at a picture of his father for so long he fell asleep. When he roused himself, he knew hours had passed because it was dark outside.
His father had knocked on the door at some point and called out his name.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” he yelled. For good measure, he picked up the object closest to him and threw it at the door. Fortunately, they stayed away.
The room darkened, and he didn’t have the energy or the will to turn on a light. He just sat and stared at the cold fireplace. Thoughts filled his head, and he couldn’t concentrate on just one of them.
He stood and walked over to the bar. It was dark, so he couldn’t see where he was going, and he kicked or stepped on several things. He finally found the light on the table behind the sofa before pouring himself another drink.
Alastair took the bottle and glass back to the sofa and sat. He started to pour some of it into a glass but instead scowled at it before throwing the glass at the stone above the fireplace, making it shatter, and tipping the bottle up to his mouth. He didn’t need a fucking glass.
Sometime during the night, he slid to his side on the sofa but never dropped the empty bottle. Alastair blinked a few times, pulled his feet up on the sofa, and passed out.
The sun shining in the room the next day woke him. With a groan, he fought to sit up and look around at his surroundings. At first, he was confused at the destruction but then remembered he’d lost his soul.
He sat forward with his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands, where a massive headache throbbed against his skull. When he thought he had enough energy, he stood and walked into the bathroom.
He pissed and then walked to the sink to wash his hands and face. One look in the mirror made him cringe. He’d never looked this bad in his life. The second thing that popped into his head was all the times he and Beth had fucked in the room.
A ball of fury burst from his throat as he slammed his fist against the mirror, smashing it and cutting his hand in several places. His hand dropped, and he stared at his shattered façade for a long moment, ignoring the fact that the blood dripped from his hand onto the floor.
He thought he’d feel a little better because he’d had a day to process it. But instead, the feelings about Beth just grew deeper and harsher. If it got worse every day, he would go bat-ass crazy by the end of the week.
“Fuck it,” he growled. He got another bottle of booze, sat on the sofa, unscrewed the lid, and started drinking. It was the only thing he could think of to help curb the pain of loss.
Morning turned to afternoon, and then the room darkened. Half the bottle was gone, and it helped numb him enough to be able to breathe and not flip out and shoot someone.
He heard his phone ring a few times, and someone knocked on the door, but he ignored it. When someone tried to come in, he yelled to leave him alone. He woke up one time and had no idea what day or time it was. He guessed it had been several days, and he was starting to stink, but the thought of leaving the room pissed him off. He didn’t want people asking questions.
He hadn’t had anything besides the booze, and it was starting to feel like it was eating him from the inside. But the thought of food made him nauseous.
He stood and had to grab the back of a chair because he was so dizzy. Some of the problems were the alcohol still in his system but also the fact he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. He waited until it passed before he made his way to the door.
He ignored the crunch of glass under his shoes and the blood that had dried on his hand and leg. He had no idea what he looked like, and he didn’t care, but he did know whoever saw him would think he’d lost it. Well, he had, and he didn’t fucking care.
Chapter Six
He was aware that he still held a bottle, but it was half full, and he’d need it later.
He heard a gasp and saw Graham and Faith.
“Jesus Christ,” Graham said.
Alastair held up his hand. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
Graham sighed. “Can I at least send some food up? I’ll just help. I won’t ask questions.”
He was going to say no, but he had to do something about the hollow feeling in his gut. “Fine.”