23. After the Depravity - Jules
Voices blend together in a cacophony of celebration. The band’s house is overflowing with people and music. A cloud of smoke drifts in the air, as does the scent of beer and mixed drinks.
I’m plopped in the corner of the living room in a beanbag chair, doing what I promised I’d never do again.
“Girl, you are wasted.”
“Am not,” I mutter. But even in this heady, I-don’t-give-a-fuck stupor, I’m aware of my weak denial.
Garen flops onto the beanbag chair with me and tosses an arm over my shoulders.
“You so are.” His breath flits across my cheek, and I catch a hint of whiskey. It reminds me of Cash tonight.
Slightly intoxicated. Walls down. Desire running rampant.
He has no fucking idea how hard it was for me to walk away.
“Who has no idea, gorgeous?”
Did I say that out loud? Shit. This is exactly why I shouldn’t drink. I say and do stuff I don’t mean to.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I slur.
“I don’t fuck drunk chicks.”
“Don’t let anyone else fuck me either.”
“We don’t hang around with sleazes, so no worry there, babe.”
“Just checking.” The room seems too dim. I’m so tired. So fucking heartbroken. And limp from the booze. I lean my head on Garen’s shoulder. “It’s happened before.”
“What has?”
“Someone fucked me. I don’t even remember it.”
“That’s fucked up, Jules.”
“I know. Shouldn’t’ve done it.”
“No, I mean it’s fucked up he did that to you. That ain’t right.”
“Lots of things aren’t right.” I curl into his side, eyes closed, and he tightens his arm around me. “I’m in love with someone I can’t have.”
“That sucks. Been there myself.” He shifts, and I hear liquid sloshing, and him taking a long swig of his chosen poison.
“This is why I don’t drink. Can’t keep my big mouth shut.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“You’re a nice guy, Garen. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not very often.”
“Why’s that?”
“I break too many hearts.”
“Maybe you should stop.”
“Or maybe you should get your player hands off my bestie,” Les says. I drag my eyes open and find her standing in front of us, arms crossed.
“Hey, bestie,” I say with a drunken smile.
“Good God, you’ve been drinking. Like seriously fucking drinking, Jules.” She pulls me up by the arm.
“So maybe I have,” I say, stumbling after her as she leads me away from the crowded living room. We enter the hall, and I lean against the wall for a moment, waiting for my surroundings to stop twirling around me.
Around and around we go.
That’s what Cash and I have been doing—dancing in a continuous circle of agony.
Lesley props me up under her arm. “Do you need to barf?”
“Uh-ummm.”
“Is that a no?”
“Hmm.”
“What the fuck were you drinking?”
“I had a…I think a few of those fruity drinks Zan was making. And some shots…I think…”
“If you can’t remember, then you’ve had too much.” A door squeaks open, and Lesley flips on the light. Through the haze of my twirly reality, I recognize her bedroom, which seems off to me.
Probably because my shit is no longer in it.
“What’s going on, Jules? This isn’t you.”
“You are so wrong,” I say, pointing a finger at her as I flop onto her bed. “I’ve got a bad habit, Les.”
With a sigh, she settles onto the mattress next to my hunched over form. “I wouldn’t go that far. You don’t drink very often.”
“That’s not what I mean. I have a bad habit of screwing around with married men.”
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“I kissed him.” I blink a few times until the outline of her form isn’t so blurry. “Or he kissed me. What the fuck does it matter who kissed who? We’re both so far gone.” I flop over and hug her pillow.
“You’re gonna get hurt,” she says, rubbing my shoulder.
“It’s too fucking late. I love him.”
“He’s married, Jules. Say he does leave his wife? I say once a cheater, always a cheater. He’ll turn around and do the same to you.”
“Things aren’t that black and white.” I glare my pent-up frustration in her direction. “And by that logic, you might as well say the same about me.”
“That’s not what I meant. I know you well enough to know that you’re not like that. You made a mistake, simple as that. One you’ll hopefully learn from.”
“So it’s okay for me to cheat, but not him? Double standard much, Les?” I’m drunk, cranky, and hurting, but I can’t seem to care about my shitty behavior right now.
“You’re right,” she says. “I don’t know him, or the circumstances. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“You’re a good friend. The best friend I’ve ever had.” I cuddle her pillow a little tighter, my lids growing heavy. “I’ll apologize tomorrow for being a bitch. Just let me sleep it off, ‘kay?”
The bed shifts, and her footsteps fade as she leaves the bedroom. She shuts off the light before closing the door, but the streetlamp outside the window offers enough illumination to chase away the pitch dark. Sleeping it off isn’t going to come as easily as I’d hoped. I fish my cell from my pocket, thankful I didn’t lose it during my string of drinks and drowning sorrows. Shuffling through my notifications, I frown.
A missed call from Chris. Big surprise there, since he’s been calling and texting for a couple of weeks now.
He misses me. He wants me to come home. He’s sorry. He forgives me. Blah, blah, blah.
I pull up my contacts, and my thumb hovers over Cash’s name.
Don’t do it, Jules.
Closing my eyes, I relive the moment his lips touched mine for the first time. The way his fingers twisted in my hair. The way he pulled me close—so close that I felt every hard plane of his body against me.
His abs under my palms, his mouth on my throat, his hard cock nudging me through his jeans. Holy hell, do I love that man in jeans. There is nothing sexier than Cash Montgomery in jeans and a T-shirt.
For a long while I stare at my cell, trying to reconcile what I should do with what I want to do. What I want is him, and I’ll take him any way I can get him, even if it’s only through a text message during a weak moment I can’t help but steal.
Me: Are you alone?
He answers almost immediately.
Cash: Yes. Are you?
Me: Alone and drunk.
Cash. Jesus. Where are you?
Me: At my friend’s house.
Cash: Is the guy with the tattoos there?
Me: He lives here.
Cash: The thought of him touching you is making me insane. Please tell me you’re not doing anything stupid.
Me: Stupid, like finding someone who can actually be with me?
Minutes pass, and I bite my lip as I wait for him to answer. I’m a nervous wreck, wondering what he’s thinking.
Me: Please talk to me.
Cash: I’m here, Jules. I just don’t know what to say.
Me: Just tell me the truth, no matter how much it might hurt.
Cash: The truth is I don’t want you with anyone else. But that’s not fair to you, so if you’re into this guy, and he’s treating you right, then I’ll deal with it.
Me: What if I want to be yours?
God, I have no filter right now.
Cash: We both know that’s not possible.
Tears sting my eyes, and there’s no chance of holding them back now—not with the crushing weight of his words on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Blinking the sorrow down my cheeks, I reply to his text, and a teardrop lands on the screen.
Me: Because you love her?
Cash: No, because divorcing her involves more than just the two of us.
Wiping my eyes, I glare at his message.
Me: I don’t understand. That makes no fucking sense, Cash.
Cash: I told you it’s complicated.
Me: Then fucking uncomplicate it.
Cash: I’m not sure I can.
Because I’m just a girl he’s hot for, and nothing more. All this time I thought he felt the same way, but if he isn’t willing to fight for us, then I must have been wrong. The realization winds around my throat, squeezing a sob free.
Me: You shouldn’t have kissed me.
Cash: I know, Jules. And I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am that I put you in this position. I never wanted to hurt you.
Me: It’s too fucking late for that.
I power off my cell and let my despair bathe Lesley’s pillow. Our texts haunt me for what seems like hours, making sleep an elusive bitch. He’s not just the man I’m in love with—he’s also my boss. The man I’ll have to face at work on Monday morning. Somehow, I have to make this right. At the very least, we need to go back to the way things were, back when we kept an appropriate amount of distance between us.
The kind of distance that doesn’t involve spending time outside of work. The kind that doesn’t involve kissing or late-night phone calls that end with me crying out his name as I come.
Fingering my silent phone, I consider texting him again to tell him I’m sorry, too. That I don’t blame him, despite how much he’s hurt me. Because we’re both to blame for this mess, and for both our sakes, we have to find a way out of it, through it, around it.
Clearly, texting isn’t going to help—if anything, it’s only gotten us into more trouble. But I can’t imagine having this conversation at work either. Hoping to set things right with him tomorrow at the market, face to face, I eventually fall asleep.
But the following morning, he never shows.