Series: Torn and Bound Duet Series by K. Webster
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
After thanking the driver, I pull my phone out and shoot a text to Sasha, who immediately replies that my name is at the door. Thank God!
Once I’m in, I make a beeline straight for the bar.
“What can I get you?” the good-looking bartender asks, blatantly checking me out.
“Umm… A martini, please. Any flavor is fine.” I should probably find Sasha and her posse, but I’m not in the mood yet. I’ll need a little bit of alcohol in my system to deal with her tonight.
The bartender nods and goes about making my drink. While I’m waiting, my phone vibrates against my breast. It’s probably Sasha… I pull it out to let her know I’m grabbing a drink and I’ll find her soon, but when I swipe up to check the message, I freeze. It’s not Sasha… It’s Ashton. And before I can demand my brain to abort, I’m reading his text.
Ashy C: This is my daily message to remind you that I love you and I’m here when you’re ready to talk.
The bartender sets my drink down and I swallow the entire thing in one fell swoop.
“Want another one?” he asks, his brows knitted together in confusion.
“Actually, I’ll take a double shot of whatever you have that’s the strongest,” I shout over the blaring music.
I love you.
The bartender raises a brow but doesn’t argue, grabbing the shot glass and setting it in front of me. He pours the liquor, and I down it before he’s even had time to put the bottle back. The liquor stings its way down my esophagus and when it reaches my belly, it feels like it’s on fire. My throat and stomach burn, but I welcome the pain. Craving it.
I’m here when you’re ready to talk.
“Another one?” he asks, holding up the bottle.
“Yep, keep ’em coming.”
“Bad day?”
“Bad week,” I tell him, downing the shot. “You know what, can I just keep the bottle?”
He laughs. “This is a two-thousand-dollar bottle of liquor.”
I pull my credit card out and drop it onto the bar. “I’m good for it.”
He nods with a smirk. “It’s all yours.”
After I pour another shot and swallow it back, I glance at my phone.
This is my daily message…
I already knew there were more, but I haven’t read them. I close my eyes, refusing to go there. If I read them, I’m going to want to respond. And then I’ll have to deal with everything.
I open my eyes, and the phone is still there, lying on the bar top, beckoning me.
Pick me up. Read me.
Oh, great, Mia, in your drunken state, your phone is talking to you. I roll my eyes, and just as I’m about to pour myself another shot, my phone lights up with another message.
Ashy C: I miss you more than Skittles and gummy bears.
His words are my breaking point, and before I can stop myself, my fingers are firing off a text.
Me: You don’t love me! If you did, you wouldn’t have hurt me. Now stop messaging me. I’m at The Brasserie having a good time without you. I hope your Skittles and gummy bears keep you warm at night.
There, take that!
He certainly doesn’t need me to keep him warm.
And I don’t need him either.
I have a two-thousand-dollar bottle of gin and bartender eye-candy to do that for me.
I’m okay.
I may not be enough for anyone else, but I’m enough for me.
“Fuck fuck-boys!” I call out to the bartender, raising my bottle.
He laughs and tips his head in agreement.
I’m doing fine and dandy all by myself, thank you very much.
The Brasserie.
One of Mom’s favorite hoity-toity hangouts. I know exactly where this place is and I’ll be damned if I let this opportunity pass me up. I take the world’s fastest shower and dress in something that’ll grant me access into that rich bitch martini lounge. Black slacks, a black button-up, and a slate-colored tie. I hate dressing up, but if I want to go get the girl, I need to actually be able to get in to get her. I break the rules with my black Doc Marten lace-up combat boots because if I have to crawl into society’s box, at least I can leave the lid off.
I shove my wallet in my pocket, grab my leather jacket from the closet, and snag my keys in record time. It’s cold as fuck outside, so I’m glad I wore a jacket. I’m thrumming with pent-up energy, though, too wired to be cold.
I’m going to see her.
Mia.
My Mia.
I’ll make this right. I know I can. I just need her in my arms so I can hold her. Our severed connection has left me hemorrhaging without her. Mia needs to know that I can’t exist without her in my life. I’ll take her any way I can get her.
This week, I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m a player. Worse than I gave Brayden shit for when I first met him. I use people for my own entertainment. It’s sick and fucked up. Hell, I even called my damn therapist this week to ask why I’m that way. It led to a surprisingly eye-opening session that helped me realize I’m a self-destructive shithead. That explosive behavior of mine draws people close enough that when I detonate, they’re all destroyed along with me.