Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Is it necessary?” I ask my screen.
“What?” he questions over a sigh.
I shove my phone in his face, as if he’s not getting the same message as me. “It’s reckless.”
His eyebrows blend with his hairline as he looks at me. “They’re enjoying themselves.”
What he means, but will not say, is they’re not drinking for the sake of drinking. They’re not drowning themselves. They’re not escaping.
“I’m just going to say it how it is,” he begins before I can counter. He’s right. Of course he’s right, and I have a feeling I’m about to be hit with some more home truths. “Sit,” he orders, and like an obedient dog, I do. He leans in, my usually cheeky, fun, jokey friend as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “You have an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, Jesse.”
“Had,” I pipe up. “I had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol.”
“You think because you haven’t had a drink for a couple of weeks you’re sober? The alcoholic is still there.”
My jaw twitches. “I’m not a fucking alcoholic.”
His eyes close, his palm stroking his forehead. “No, you’re not an alcoholic,” he sighs. It’s as condescending as fuck. “You can’t stop her drinking.”
Does he wanna bet? “I’m—”
“Not everyone fucks anything in sight when they’re inebriated, Jesse. Not everyone who drinks is drowning out misery.”
I recoil. Swallow. Snap my mouth firmly shut.
“For fuck’s sake,” Sam says, softening his stare and reaching for my hand. “Please, just tell her your story. And at the same time, how fucking old you are and what The Manor is.”
“All in one go?” I ask quietly, feeling the vise of terror squeezing me. “Everything?”
“Just let it all out. You can’t carry on like this. And, frankly, neither can I.”
My eyes drop to the counter, the prospect no less daunting no matter how much I ponder doing just that. “I will,” I say for the sake of it.
“And then you can crack on with this thing you’ve got going on with Ava.”
Thing? This isn’t a thing. It’s everything. “What if she leaves me?”
“She won’t leave you. She loves you. And when you love someone, you love them despite their flaws.” He squeezes my hand, and I look up, smiling mildly. I wish I was as optimistic as Sam.
“Thanks.”
He frowns, retracting his hand, clearing his throat. “How are you settling in?” His tone is purposely deep.
I laugh as my phone dings again, and I hit the open button on another message from Jay. My laughter stops. I start overheating, the calm Sam’s helped me find vanishing.
“Oh no, what?” Sam asks.
I’m off my stool like a spring, snatching my car keys off the side and heading for the door, Sam on my tail. “Don’t try to stop me,” I warn, simmering dangerously.
“Don’t worry, I’d like to keep my head.”
30
The traffic is horrendous. I drive like a complete maniac, which is apt because I feel like one. A man. Talking to Ava. A man who sounds uncannily similar to her ex-boyfriend, going by Jay’s description. A man who’s had her. A man she loved. A man in his mid-twenties.
I glance at my rearview mirror, seeing Sam in the distance, his Porsche struggling to keep up with my Aston. My phone rings. “What?” I answer shortly.
“If I get a speeding fine, I’m sending it your way.”
“Fine.” I hang up, and my phone immediately rings again. “Jay,” I answer, praying he doesn’t feed me more information that could result in me getting locked up.
“Third bottle.”
I gape at the windscreen. “What?”
“They’re on their third bottle and getting . . . loud.”
Third fucking bottle. I’m fuming. “And the man?”
“Can’t see him.”
“Be there soon.” I hang up and put my foot down, a small part of me willing myself to calm the fuck down to avoid the explosions that are about to go off. It’s no good. I cannot accept such recklessness. I cannot stand by and allow another man to worm his way back into her affections. She’s a sitting fucking duck. Drunk. Vulnerable.
I park illegally outside the bar and dive out of my car, just as Sam screeches up behind me. “Fuck me, Jesse,” he says, joining me on the pavement.
“What’s up? Your pretty Porsche struggling to keep up with a real man’s car?” I pull my jacket in and stalk into the bar, hearing Sam laughing behind me. I spot them in a nanosecond, laughing, staggering.
And then they clatter to the floor in a drunken mess.
And my temper goes from hot to burning, not only because she’s fucking plastered.
The dress. She’s wearing the fucking dress. The dress she didn’t want to even fucking buy but did, solely to piss me off. The dress she probably didn’t want to wear tonight but did, solely to piss me off.
“Keep your cool,” Sam says quietly beside me, holding on to the sleeve of my jacket.