I want to slap him. I hate him right now. I hate him because he’s right, and I know it. Right now, Spike doesn’t want to give me anything more than a good time. I don’t doubt there’s lingering feelings between us, but I also know it’s not enough to make him see me as anything more than what I am. Cade bringing it up only makes it hurt that much more. It hurts, because for me it goes so much deeper. For me, Spike is my soul. He’s my reason to breathe. He’s what I fight for.

“I love him,” I yell, feeling my voice shake.

Cade’s face drops and he sighs deeply, losing his anger. “Fuck, Tom Cat, when will you see he ain’t ever gonna be what you need?”

“You don’t know that,” I whisper.

He steps forward, putting a hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “Do know that, ‘cause I’ve known Spike longer than anyone. He’s not going to break for anyone, or you...”

“How can you possibly know that?” I cry, walking over to the couch and dropping down. My legs are wobbly, and my body is shaking from the inside out.

“I told you, I know Spike and I know how fucked up he is. I was there, Ciara. I was in that car and I saw what it did to him. He ain’t ever gonna move on from Chey’s death, and he ain’t ever gonna be normal again. You need to find yourself a man to fuckin’ love you, not to just fuck you.”

Hot tears fill my eyes, and instead of breaking, I get angry. I’m sick of being second best. Sick of everyone telling me I’ll never compare. I’ll never be her! Fuck her! Fuck her and the rest of them. I look up at Cade, and the tears slide down my cheeks.

“Leave, now.”

His eyes widen a little. “Tom Cat, don’t go kickin’ me out ‘cause of what I said. Only tryin’ to look out for you.”

“I said leave!” I hiss, my voice full of venom.

He flinches. “All right. Ain’t gonna argue with a hurt woman.”

I look away as he walks toward the door. When he gets to it, he turns to me and stares for what seems like forever.

“You know I’m right, Tom Cat. That’s why it hurts so much. When you’re ready to talk to me, you call yeah?”

Then he’s gone.

I get off the couch, swiping angrily at my tears. I walk into the kitchen, open the cupboard, and pull out a full bottle of vodka. I pop the top, and bring it to my lips. The liquid burns so much I choke as it slides down my throat, but I don’t care, I keep drinking. I’m tired of pain. I’m tired of the inner fight to be something different, but most of all, I’m tired of always being Cheyenne’s shadow. Even though she’s gone, I still live behind her. Everything that she left behind affects me: Spike, my parents, my entire life...all broken because of her. I lean against the counter, heaving and coughing as I struggle to swallow more vodka. I want the pain gone, just for a fucking minute.

It goes away.

I find myself going through old photos, cursing and giggling all at the same time. I have a severe case of neglected child syndrome, if that’s even a real thing.

I was always the child behind the star - Cheyenne being the star, of course. She was perfect, happy, witty, smart, and everything I wasn’t. People noticed her, and if they didn’t, she made sure they did. More often than not, I lived with it; until she took the one thing I loved the most - Danny.

I come across the picture of the three of us, just before Spike slept with me. It was a party; I think it was the first party where they officially got together. I remember how much it hurt. God, it fucking hurt. Nothing in the world feels worse than loving someone who doesn’t love you back.

“Ciara!”

I flinch, and lift my hazy eyes to the front door. Spike. I don’t move, partly because I’m so drunk and I can’t. I don’t drink often, and it’s really not pretty when I do.

“You in there?” he yells again.

Yes, I’m in here. I’m not going to answer though.

“Fuckin’ hell, open up. I can hear the fuckin’ music.”

I still don’t move.

I hear him shuffling about, then I hear his boots crunching as he moves around to the window. Soon, it’s being lifted and he’s climbing in. I burst out into a fit of giggles, even though it’s really not funny. Someone just climbed through my window, with little to no effort. That’s safe.

Spike spins when he’s on his feet and stares down at me on the floor, clutching my bottle of vodka. He has a busted eye, and he looks like shit, but his eyes soften a touch when he sees what I’m doing—or maybe I just think they do because I’m so drunk. He walks over, his eyes scanning over the photo album in my lap.

“What’re you doin’, Tom Cat?”

“I had a visitor today,” I slur, sloshing my bottle around as I lift it.

“Give me that bottle,” he says, kneeling down in front of me.

I note how good he looks this evening. He’s wearing his leather jacket; fuck, I love that jacket. I love how it looks stretched across his broad back. He’s wearing a navy blue t-shirt underneath it, and I just bet it’s clinging to his hard body. His black jeans are old and ripped, and he has silver chains hanging off them. Fuck him for being so attractive. When he reaches for my bottle, I jerk it away.

“Ah-ah, mine.”

“You’re fuckin’ smashed. Give me the bottle.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” I wave, and the bottle sloshes about. “Cade came to visit me.”