Ryland

 

Whiskey annihilation.

The articles blurred together, and I took deep satisfaction in that. I had no inclination to keep reading them. To keep dredging up these horrible… emotions? And yet I was impressed with the publicity Nicole garnered for the event. She’d never worked so hard on any project I’d given her over the years.

She was dedicated to the cause. I was dedicated to seeing this bottle of Johnnie Walker dry by sunrise. It was Brighton who thought of this. She’d hit me right in the tiny fissure of my armor. Hell if I knew how she kept doing that. The million-dollar question was to love or hate her for it.

Course, I loved her for it, sap that I was. 

So typical of the little peach, trying to make amends for the sins of her father. It couldn’t be done. Nothing would bring Sophia back. Only death could purge those last moments from my mind. Relax Freud, I wasn’t referring to her fucking cockroach of a brother. I was talking about myself. And no, I wasn’t suicidal either.

But goddammit if she didn’t make me question it sometimes. The gaping Brighton-shaped hole she’d left in my life couldn’t be patched up with a first aid kit or any amount of aged whiskey. The Montagues and Capulets had nothing on us.  Star crossed lovers, were we doomed from the start?

I couldn’t accept that. I’d write her odes upon odes if she wanted me to. They’d be pitiful, of course. I could open up to her. Allow her a glimpse of my pain this time. She’d feed on it because she thought she could fix me.

She’d always believe there was light in the darkness. That was my angel. Even when she was on her knees- filled with my darkness- she was still shining bright. My Siren’s song, my exposed nerve. She lured me in and made me feel. And then she left me to perish.

Christ, I needed her right now. Fear had come-a-knocking, whispering that I mightn’t ever have her again. It was bound to bring on childish antics and tantrums of epic proportions the longer she kept this charade up. 

There was no way I could just let her go. The last time I’d even entertained such a hellish notion popped into my head. She’d wrecked her bracelet and coaxed my personal demons from their shadowy lairs. The terror on my face that day was irrefutable, and I’d shown my hand before I intended. So, I did what any self-respecting male would do in my situation. I pouted. She came to me on her own that time- on her knees, no less. It only took my silence to bring her back.

I contemplated if it’d work now. Chances weren’t good. I’d fucked up plenty of times in my life (shocking, I know), but this was unchartered territory. How do you get someone to forgive the unspeakable? How do you even look at yourself knowing you almost killed the woman you love?

I couldn’t tell you exactly, I’d been avoiding my reflection since it’d happened.

She was slipping through my fingers. A tiny dot in the ocean, I stood helplessly on the shore and watched her drift away. I didn’t have a life vest, but I’d swim to her if she’d let me.

If she’d let me?

Jesus H. Christ. Were you listening to this shit? When did I become that guy? Ten months ago, I’d taken her without apology. Laid down the rules and staked my claim like the selfish prick I was.

You see? You see what she did to me?

Fucks sake. She’d turned me into a pussy. Spouting poetic nonsense at four in the frigging morning. Someone get me a handgun so I could cease with the dramatics. 

Swiveling around in my chair, I kicked my heels up on the desk. I was just drunk enough not to care about the marks. Rocking back and forth, the creaking of leather filled the stark silence of the office where I spent entirely too much time.

The way I saw it, I had one of two choices. Go in guns blazing, or slow and cautious. While guns blazing always worked in the past, I wasn’t certain it’d play out in my favor this time. No doubt about it, Brighton enjoyed the dominant and even slightly sadistic parts of me. She expected them. But perhaps that tactic was doing more harm than good at this point.

I’d show her it didn’t always have to be that way. I could bend. A little. Maybe. Okay, I’d try.

Better?

I retrieved my phone and scrolled through the contacts until I found my publicist. Sophia’s Shoes was important to Brighton. Possibly, it was important to me too. I hadn’t a strong opinion on that yet. Either way, I’d throw everything I had at this.