I watch, almost in slow-mo, as Azalea falls apart. Her eyes are wild and her lip is quivering. She’s a lit stick of dynamite, and I just fucking know she’s about to blow.

“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” she screeches, causing several heads to turn our way. “You are somethin’ else, Drake Collins. Somethin’ else entirely. You fooled me for so damn long with this act of yours, but I finally, finally, see your true colors, and thank fucking God.

“I came here ready to listen and to understand. I came here giving you the benefit of the doubt. I came here ready to give us a chance, and I find you here with her.” Azalea’s voice drips with disdain, and while a part of me wants to feel bad for her, that part is small and far outweighed by the part of me that’s raging at her accusations.

“You are the lowest of the low, and if I never see your face again, it’ll be too soon!” she screams in my face, and I’ve had enough. I tighten my grip on her arm and drag her behind me, away from the audience we’ve gathered.

She hollers and protests the entire way, and I’m about ready to yell right back at her. “You need to stop talking,” I grit out through clenched teeth as I haul her through the entryway. Swear to God, if I didn’t love her crazy-ass . . .

“I will NOT stop talking! You’re nothin’ but a no good, womanizin’ jerk—”

“You’re callin’ me a womanizer? Like you don’t know me better than that?”

“I feel like I don’t know you at all anymore,” she says, collapsing against my chest.

I palm each side of her face and tilt her head back so that she’s looking me in the eye. I’m momentarily struck speechless at the sight of her, with her mascara running down her cheeks as she cries silent tears. The pain etched across her face is so fucking palpable that I can feel it. Or maybe that’s my own pain. “You know me, Little Bit. I’m the same as ever—”

Azalea attempts to pull back from my hold, but I bring her in closer. With her face pressed against my chest and her tears soaking my shirt, she whispers, “I know, D, and maybe that’s the problem. You’re exactly the same. I’ve just been blind to it.”

This time when she tries to wiggle free, I let her. No matter what I try to say, she’s determined not to hear it. Azalea’s already decided she knows it all, and I’m wasting my breath trying to tell her otherwise. She rises up on to her tippytoes and wraps her arms around my neck before sealing her mouth to mine in what I know she sees as a goodbye kiss. And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe we really aren’t meant to be. God knows I’ve fucking tried, but I’m man enough to know when I need to bow out.

With one last hard press of her lips, she pulls away from me and walks away. She doesn’t turn back, and I don’t try to stop her. We’ve run our course, and with the taste of her tears on my lips, I turn and head back into the bar.

Reclaiming my seat at the bar beside Kelly, I take a moment to compose myself, because otherwise, she’ll be the recipient of the anger and hurt I’m drowning in—not that she doesn’t deserve at least some of it.

“Guess it didn’t go well?” she asks, pushing another drink toward me.

“The fuck do you think?” I ask, my tone hard and angry. She has the good sense to at least look sorry, but that’s not really good enough. “No, Kelly, it didn’t. And you sure as shit didn’t help matters.”

“Look, I realize I probably made things worse, but my God. Somebody needed to light a fire under that girl’s ass.”

I level her with a glare. “Only fire you lit is the one pushing her further and further away. Jesus. Next time you wanna help, do me a favor and don’t. In all honesty, I don’t think we’ll move past this.”

Kelly gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Maybe it’s for the best.” And as much as it kills me to agree with her, maybe it is.

Everything hurts. My head, my heart, my pride. The pain of seeing them together and watching him walk away from me and back to her pricks at me like a million tiny needles, and I want—no, I need—to numb it. To not feel it. To not feel anything.

When my tears blur my vision, I guide my car to the shoulder. I flip down my visor and use the mirror to check the damage and gasp at the sight I’m met with. My eyes are bloodshot and my cheeks are stained black. I look like the morning walk of shame, minus the happy ending from the night before, because apparently, happiness isn’t meant for girls like me.

I fish my emergency makeup bag from the glovebox and make do the best I can. Once I only look half-bad and not horrible, I take off, driving with no destination in mind. That is, until I reach the first bar in the next town over. Nothing to numb my pain like a little alcohol therapy.

“What’ll ya have?” the bartender asks, barely glancing my way.

“Two shots. Whisk—” I pause and change course, because whiskey makes me think of Drake’s eyes. “Tequila.” I offer him my I.D. and tell him to open a tab.

“Here ya go,” he says, placing my shots in front of me before heading off to help the next customer. Wasting no time, I slam them back-to-back, savoring the way they burn all the way down, because at least I’m in control of this pain.

I signal the bartender for two more shots when someone sidles up next to my stool. “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ drinking all alone?” the stranger asks, running his thumb in small circles along my shoulder. I don’t normally enjoy strangers touching me, but with the tequila flowing through me and the night’s earlier rejection, it feels nice.

“Who says I’m alone? Maybe I’m waiting on someone?” I ask, trying to be coy.

“Doll, I’ve been watching you since you strolled in. If you’re waiting on someone, they ain’t comin’. Shame for them, but lucky for me.” The bartender approaches with the shots I signaled for, as well as whatever the dude all up in my space is drinking, and I smile to myself when he tells the bartender to put my drinks on his tab. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be payin’ for her own drinks.”

I know I should thank him, but his words hit me harder than the alcohol—"Shame for them.”—like somehow, it’s Drake’s loss and not mine.

“Tell me, doll, what’s your story?” The stranger twirls a strand of my blonde hair around his finger, and I take a moment to study him. Tall, medium build, with tan skin. He’s got a jaw sharp enough to cut granite and eyes bluer than the ocean. Combine all that with his wavy blonde hair and that rumble of a voice, and he’s a catch. Someone else’s catch, though, because the only man I want on my line is Drake Collins.

“No story here, just out for a good time.” We never exchange names, and our conversation stays strictly in the small-talk zone, save for his pick-up lines. The sexy stranger orders another round of drinks, only this time instead of shots, he asks for some mixed concoction and it’s delicious. “I can hardly even taste the alcohol,” I tell him on a wobbly smile.

“That’s why they’re so good,” he replies with a wink, watching with interest as I slurp down whatever it is he ordered me. When I reach the bottom, he signals the bartender for one more and asks him to close out the tab.

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk a bit more?” he asks when I’m about midway through the second mixed drink. I feel boneless, weightless—like I could just float away. Smiling, I nod, and we make our way to the door with his hand at the small of my back.

He pauses at the door and looks down at me, looks down at how I’m wrapped around him since I’m too smashed to support myself, and smiles a smile that reminds me of the devil himself. I shiver, and he takes it as an invitation to hold me closer.

Just as we’re about to make our way outside, the door to the bar opens, and I find myself staring up at a very familiar face.

“The fuck is this?” Brent asks, venom dripping from his words.

I smile at him, wide and toothy, and he glares back at me. “Nothing for you to worry about, bud,” Mr. Stranger tells him as he tries to shoulder us past him.

But Brent’s not having it. He shoves my new friend back, throwing us both off-kilter. He takes advantage of it and yanks me away and into his arms. His big, strong arms. He feels much safer than my stranger. “The hell are you thinking, Azalea? Drake know you’re here?”

I tilt my head up to look at Brent and bat my lashes at him. “It’s not his busi-ness.” My words slur, and my head spins. How much alcohol was in those mixed drinks?

“Let’s go,” he commands, his voice gruff with irritation. My stranger must’ve decided I wasn’t worth the hassle, because when I look for him, he’s nowhere to be found. Brent takes a few steps forward, and when he notices I’m not following, he turns back and scoops me into his arms. I breathe in deeply through my nose, loving and hating—but mostly loving—how similar he smells to Drake.

I nuzzle my face into his broad chest and wrap my arms around his neck. Maybe he’s just what I need to forget about Drake. Emboldened by the thought, I crane my neck and press my lips to his throat, my tongue darting out to taste him.

“Cut that shit out,” Brent says, wrenching away from me. Why do guys all wanna play hard to get? Not discouraged in the least, I allow him to place me into his passenger seat, tracking him as he comes around to the driver’s side. He pauses at his door and plays on his phone for a minute.

Brent doesn’t ask me for my address—he just starts driving. The scenery outside my window passes in a blur, and the whir of the tires and our breathing are the only sounds. Sneaking a glance at him, I note his clenched jaw, and I want to make him smile. A man like him should be happy, not mad.

Gently, I reach across the console, placing my hand on his thigh. He briefly glances down and then back to the road, and I take that as an all clear sort of signal and creep my hand higher. Just as I’m about to reach the promised land, Brent hits the brakes—hard. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” He sounds so very angry.

“I–I wanted to make you sm–smile,” I tell him, my words slurred and running together.

“You want me to smile?” he asks, and I nod eagerly, sloppily. “Then keep your hands to yourself and sit back in your seat.”

Dropping my head to the seatback, I let my eyes drift shut as my head lolls back and forth. Rejected twice in one night. This may be a new, all-time low.

Though, only one of those rejections stung.