Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
I flip open the box lid, pull out the small clear bag filled with the Devil’s ash. It’s ten p.m. I need a distraction. This is what my life is going to become, a series of waiting for my cheating partner to get home while he’s off running a fucking billion-dollar crime empire. He’s Hector Hayes’ son, and as much as his mother has tried to imply that he is nothing like his father, he’s morphing into his daddy every fucking day that goes by.
I rack up the lines in pretty little rows, swipe my phone up from the counter, and hit dial on Tate.
“Yes?” She answers sweetly. Fake. There’s nothing sweet about Tate, and thank fuck for that because we wouldn’t be best friends if she was.
“Are you out being a ho tonight?” Flicking the solid gold straw between my fingers, I bring it to my nostril and lean down, snorting a line before clearing my nose.
“Why yes, I am. I’m about to head out, and by the sounds of what I just heard, you need me to pick you up on the way…”
“See you soon.”
I place my phone back on the counter and pull the clip out of my hair until my brown locks tumble over my slender shoulders. My razor-sharp collarbone swells out of my skin, and my cheeks are a little more sunken in than normal. I’ve lost a lot of weight. Probably from the coke. Bishop promised he wouldn’t hide anything from me anymore, yet the secrets feel louder than ever. He comes home, we have sex, all is good, and then he walks out those doors and I feel like I’ve lost him until he walks back through them again. Even as I make my way back to my room and start on my makeup, I keep thinking about him. At Hunter’s. With a fucking chick on his lap. Suddenly, I’m whirl-winded back to when we were at high school and he used shit like this as a way to spiral me out of control. Truth is, no relationship has a happily ever after. It doesn’t end after the simple words of “The End”. There’s no such thing. Love continues to destroy long after the final page of any well-written romance novel.
I finish up my makeup and browse through my clothes in the closet. Most of them are still new. All designer. Suddenly, I’m the girl with too much money and not enough sense. I choose a leather skirt, thigh-high boots, and a matching leather jacket with a white camisole underneath. My makeup is a creation of the anger I feel inside, with black smudges around my red-rimmed eyes and lips the color of slaughter. A key jiggles in the hole before the door opens and Tate walks through, wearing high-rise jeans and a crop top. I’ve never been so thankful that I gave her a key to our other entrance.
I finish off the lettering and step back to admire my work. With a note plastered on our fridge, written in Ruby Woo, I flick my tongue over my front teeth. Gone out. Fuck you very much. Xo
Tate pauses when she reads the note, twirling her keys around her index finger. “You’re looking like a whole hot mess right now, Mads. And that note is going to piss him off.”
I grab her by the arm. “I don’t really care.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Tate asks, closing the door behind us and using her key to lock up before jogging up behind me. We could have used the private elevator, but I know Bishop has direct camera view of it on his phone and I don’t want him to get notified that we have left.
“No.” I push on the L button continuously, cursing the shitty music that won’t stop playing.
“Alright then, I guess it’s going to be a night of Tate and Madison take—one hundred?”
“Tate?” I scoop up some powder onto my pinky nail, taking the bump and offer one to her nose. “Shut up and take the hit.”
He told me he loved me.
And that may be true,
But the only thing left between us,
Is broken and strewed.
MUSIC. THE HEADY SOUND POUNDS through my ears, sending vibrations through my body.
My hair whips around the place as my body rolls to the music. I spin and grab Tate from the back of her neck, spilling her drink down her chest. “Bathroom!”
Neon lights flicker on and off to the beat, body sweat rubs against me, and every now and then, I lose sight of Tate, until I feel her fingers in my pocket, seeking that little bag.
I grab her by the hand and lead us toward the seedy bathroom stalls that hang right at the back of the bar.
Checking the stalls one-by-one, I pull my phone out to upload a snarky social media post, when I see all of the missed calls and texts. With the music now nothing but a distant thrum against the walls, the reality of what I’m doing sinks further into my brain.