by Gina Azzi
Rielle: Any word from Easton?
Me: Nada.
Rielle: Ouch. I’m sorry, babe.
Me: Maybe for the best?
Rielle: [shrugging emoji] Promise you’ll have fun tonight.
Me: That’s all I can hope for.
Rielle: I’ll come to you. We’ll grab an Uber to meet Aiden?
Me: Good plan. Come at 7 p.m.? Dinner first?
Rielle: Love it! See you then.
I toss my phone on the bed and rummage through my closet. I flip through hangers until I find a killer dress, one I haven’t worn in ages. I grin, pulling out the tight, short, sexy navy dress that dips down to just above my navel and makes my eyes pop. It’s borderline slutty but in a way that gives me just the extra confidence I need. Especially tonight. I take my time curling the ends of my hair and applying a smokey eye. I color my lips, don massive hoop earrings, and spritz on perfume.
I’m carrying my heels downstairs when the doorbell rings and I pull it wide open for Rielle.
“Damn girl! You look hot!” My best friend’s mouth drops open.
I laugh, pulling her into the house and wrapping her in a quick hug. “Let me see what you’re wearing.”
She shimmies out of her winter coat and I applaud her tiny, black leather miniskirt and sheer white blouse with a cut-out on the sides. “Wow.”
“I feel like we’re back in college.” Rielle laughs, pulling a bottle of vodka from her purse.
I close my eyes and drop my head back. “Rielle, that was just last year.”
She laughs louder and pushes past me toward the kitchen.
“Rielle, wait,” I say, uneasy about drinking alcohol in Easton’s house.
She’s rummaging through the cabinets. When she finds the glasses, she grabs two. She glances at me over her shoulder. When she meets my eyes, she freezes. “Shit! I didn’t even think.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Claire. Let’s get out of here. We’ll grab drinks at the restaurant.”
Relief unspools in my chest. “Okay.”
“Can I just use the bathroom first?”
“Of course. Upstairs, first door on the right.”
“Thanks.” Rielle flashes me a smile and bounds up the stairs.
I finish getting ready, slipping on my shoes and packing my clutch. As soon as Rielle is ready to go, we step outside into the cold night air and take an Uber to a trendy downtown restaurant neither of us have tried before.
By the time Rielle and I meet up with Aiden, I’m already feeling the liquor. I’m a little lightheaded, a lot giggly, and an excellent conversationalist. Aiden Hardsin is easy on the eyes with his messily styled blond hair and big blue eyes. He’s dressed like a badass lawyer and a Brooklyn hipster collided—tailored blazer, swanky pocket square, rolled-up jeans with Chelsea boots—and while the look shouldn’t work, he pulls it off effortlessly.
“Hey Claire.” He hugs me hello, chuckling as I stumble. His hand rests against my back to steady me. “I see you pre-gamed.”
I glance back to see if he’s pissed since technically, he’s here for work. And so am I. But Aiden grins at me, amused, and turns to introduce himself to Rielle.
“Okay,” he says as he leads us toward the front of the venue. A line already snakes to the corner of the street and a burly bouncer guards the door with a no-nonsense expression. “We’ll grab a few drinks and listen to some of the opening acts. I’d like to connect with Big Roxi before his set since, if all goes well, it will be too hectic afterwards. Make sure you introduce yourself and tell him about your work. Pitch any ideas you have for merchandising too. Do you have a business card?”
I shake my head, sobering. I should have put more thought into this. Why didn’t I? Why don’t I ever prepare the way I’m supposed to? A flush works up my chest as worry unfurls in my stomach.
Aiden must see my concern because he shakes his head. “I swear, it’s super casual. Don’t worry about it. I just want to make sure you have your chance to talk to him. Be yourself, Claire. You’ve got this.” Aiden pushes me forward and exchanges a few words with the bouncer.
In the next moment, Rielle and I are walking through a jam-packed venue. It’s dark and hazy, and as Rielle grips my hand and turns to look at me over her shoulder, I see the excitement blazing in her eyes.
Aiden guides us toward the bar and asks what we’re drinking. After we each take a shot of Fireball, I start to relax. This scene, the club, the pulsing beat, the dreamy expression of music lovers, is one I know well. I can do this.
Aiden, Rielle, and I listen to two opening acts before we’re ushered backstage to chat with Big Roxi. The second I meet him, I’m dazzled. He’s got a quiet energy that wraps around him like an aura. His dark eyes are warm, his smile easygoing.
“Hey man, it’s good to meet you. I’m Aiden Hardsin with Pierce Parke Entertainment Law Group.” Aiden introduces himself. During their exchange, Big Roxi listens attentively and asks a few questions.
All too soon, Aiden places his hand in the center of my back and pushes me forward. “This is Claire Merrick. She’s been doing some freelance work for Boston artists, most notably The Burnt Clovers.”
Big Roxi looks me over lazily. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back. “You Derek’s girl?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Nope, we’re just friends.” I stick out my hand, which he takes. He studies me while he holds my hand for a beat too long. Satisfied, he drops my hand and nods, smiling warmly.
“Okay then. Well, I’ve seen some of your work and I’m impressed. I’m looking for some fresh ideas for merchandising. I’m about to go on”—he tips his head toward the stage—“but if you’re free to connect, I’d love to talk through some ideas.”
“Absolutely. That would be awesome.” I slip him a bar napkin with my number and email address on it. “I haven’t made business cards or anything yet.” I blush.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I hear you. When things happen in this industry, they’re usually unexpected.” He slips the bar napkin into his back pocket. “But at the very least, your method is memorable.”
I grin, relieved he’s receptive to meeting with me even though I’m probably the most underprepared person on the planet.
“I’ll hit you up,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly.
A woman slips to his side, all beauty and elegance, and squeezes his hand. “Good luck, baby.”
He kisses her sweetly and it’s obvious that they’re together. He turns and glances at Aiden, Rielle, and me. “Catch you guys later?”
We nod and watch as Big Roxi takes the stage. A hum travels through the crowd and the energy shifts. A beat drops and in a matter of seconds, the quiet energy of Big Roxi erupts into a wild torrent of words that are so much deeper than face value.
He unapologetically dives into political issues, economic inequalities, and social injustices with a ferocity that sends shivers up my arms.
“Wow,” Rielle breathes next to me.
I nod. “He’s incredible.”
The woman who kissed him turns toward us and smiles. “This is just the beginning.”
I agree, watching Big Roxi’s mesmerizing performance. I don’t want to miss a second of his set. Aiden shifts us back to the crowd and I soak up the energy of the group. It pulses in my temples and beats through my body. I’m swept away by the moment, reveling in it. When I look up, I catch Aiden’s eye and he grins at me. It’s like he realizes at the same time I do that I need to be part of this industry, that my soul demands it.
After an hour, we decide to hit Firefly, another downtown club. Aiden tries to beg off but Rielle ropes him into coming along, explaining that we may require a chaperone to see us safely home. At that guilt trip, Aiden has no choice. When we arrive at Firefly, Aiden tips his head toward the bar. We all take a shot and Rielle grabs our hands, trying to pull us toward the dance floor. This time, Aiden is successful in his attempt to stay behind, but I follow Rielle through the swaying bodies until we’re in
the center of the floor. We raise our arms overhead and our hips swirl to the beat.
I shake my ass, closing my eyes. My head tips back and I feel the ends of my hair tickle my lower back. For the first time in months, the thoughts swirling in my mind fade. My head clears, blissfully numb, and tonight takes over. I revel in the relaxation that flows through my body. I hold on to the giddy feeling in my stomach. I enjoy the music and the dark and the laughter of my best friend.
“I’ve missed this!” I open my eyes and shout at Rielle.
She smirks. “I’ve missed you!”
“We need to do this more often!”
She nods vigorously before pulling me back to the bar.
We each take another shot, ignoring the men who circle around us, looking for a way to engage us in conversation. Aiden steps up. “You guys need a bodyguard more than a chaperone,” he tells us.
Rielle and I laugh and look at each other. We’re both sporting goofy grins. Tonight, it’s just me and my best friend again. And I needed it so much more than I realized.
21
Easton
“Stop being a pussy,” I scold myself. It’s freezing outside, with a blustery wind kicking up, and I’m standing on the front porch of my own home, too scared to go inside.
Is she home? Has she packed up and left?
I shuffle my feet on the stoop and rub my hands together, blowing on them to keep warm. I need to man up and go inside.
Forcing myself to punch in the code, I swing open the front door and enter. The kitchen lights are on, which causes relief to flicker in my chest. But the house is eerily quiet and my disappointment flares.
“Claire?” I call out, shaking off my coat and hanging it in the closet. “You home?”
I walk deeper into the house, listening for any sign of her. There’s none.
“Shit.” I make my way to the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks when I note the vodka bottle on the kitchen counter. “What the fuck?”
I glare at the bottle, my throat tightening and aching at the sight of it. So within reach and yet, a fucking ocean away. It’s sealed. Thank God, it’s sealed. It’s a tiny bit less tempting that way. I’d have to break the seal. I wouldn’t be able to hide it. I—
I need to stop thinking about the vodka. The way it tastes when it hits the back of my throat, the burn it blazes, and the warmth it spreads through my limbs.
“No. Stop.” I clutch the sides of my head, walking a far circle around the bottle. I can’t think about it. I can’t not think about it either.
God, what a fucking mess I’ve made. Of course Claire didn’t think I’d show up today. Why would she when I’ve been silent for the past few days? But why would she bring alcohol into my place?
A surge of anger swells in my chest. My fingers tremble, in nerves, in frustration, in need.
I slip onto a barstool at the kitchen island and glare at the bottle.
Where is Claire anyway? One look around the kitchen lets me know she’s still living here. So, there’s that.
My phone beeps and I clutch it like a godsend.
Torsten: Claire’s at Firefly with her girl. They’re lit.
I clutch the phone tightly in my hand, thoughts of Claire, drunk, being swarmed by men who aren’t me, makes me see red. Damn it. Of course she’s out, having fun with her friend. Why shouldn’t she be? She’s a gorgeous, engaging woman who doesn’t have an alcohol problem.
I frown, realizing just how seldom Claire has gone out since she moved in here. Has she been out at all? Has she been changing her entire social life to accommodate my shortcomings?
And how didn’t I realize it sooner?
Guilt and frustration churn in my stomach as I sit at the kitchen island. My gaze lands on the vodka bottle again. I can practically taste it. I want it. I fucking need it. My entire being vibrates with the craving that is wracking through my body like waves on the beach. Never ending and relentless.
My fingers tremble against my lap.
I jump up from the chair and begin pacing.
I just need to distract myself. I could play Xbox. Or watch a movie. Read a book.
That thought makes me laugh, lending some much-needed levity to the moment. I walk to the foyer and pull open the closet door. I should just leave. Go somewhere.
Images of my favorite pubs and bars flare to life in my mind and I squeeze my eyes closed in a shitty attempt to block them out. No, there’s nowhere else to go. Only Panda’s house, which I left an hour earlier. If I go back there, I’ll raise his suspicions for sure.
Or my brother’s. But he’s spending time with Indy, probably taking photos of her baby bump and gushing over how much her belly has grown in the past week.
My phone beeps again.
Torsten: Claire’s on her way home. She’s emotional and tipsy and some guy Aiden is with her. Her friend is still here. I can come to your place if you need to go. I just don’t want to leave Rielle on her own.
Aiden? Who the hell is Aiden? Why do I know that name?
Noah and Indy. Oh yeah, it all comes flooding back. Aiden is Indy’s best friend who my brother stupidly tried to set Indy up with. Is he into Claire? Do they know each other? Is he looking out for her or is he just trying to get in her pants? The thought causes a blinding anger to grip me and I resume my pacing. I can’t leave now, not when I know she’s going to stumble through the front door, drunk and sad and with another man. Why the hell would Rielle stay behind and send Claire home with Aiden?
I step back into the kitchen.
My nerves are zinging around my body so quickly, I can’t process it all. Anxiety builds in my chest, making it hard to breathe. The vodka calls to me, a silent answer to all the questions in my mind. I hesitate.
Then, I’m striding toward the bottle. I grip it around its neck and hold on tight. My mouth waters and my throat burns. My knuckles turn white and my breathing grows ragged.
No, this isn’t the way to handle this.
You know this. You’re better than this.
But are you?
You’re really just a washed-up hockey player with no talent. The only reason you have a career is because of Noah. The only reason you have a family is because of Austin. The only reason you’ve made it this long is because of Claire.
Claire.
Don’t do this to her, man. If you fall off the wagon tonight, she’ll blame herself. Is that what you want? After you already ruined her social life and made her spend the past few months worrying about your unreliable ass?
I slam the bottle down in the center of the island and resume my pacing.
Everything my eyes catch on in the kitchen seems to mock me. My head buzzes and my vision blurs.
Your brother is ten times better than you. Dad’s voice rings in my head, hard and cruel.
I rub the scar through my eyebrow, remembering how the blood seeped through my fingers, hot and bright.
Get your shit together, man. Austin snapped at me the second time I turned up to practice drunk, smelling like a distillery and looking like I hadn’t slept in days. Had I?
Prove it. Claire challenged me. Show her that I’m worthy, show her that I want her, show her that I can be enough.
But God, that’s impossible, isn’t it?
I swear, sliding back onto the barstool. I stare at the bottle, the fucking enemy that provides sweet salvation and utter ruination. What if I break the seal just to smell it? Just one deep inhale to clear my head.
No, no, I can’t.
But would one small sip really hurt? I’ve been so goddamn good for so long.
I force my shoulders to press into the backrest of the chair. I can’t do it. I can’t.
Fuck, why is this so hard? Why am I in agony?
The front door bangs open and a snort followed by a snicker floats into the kitchen.
She’s here. Claire’s here. I listen for a male voice but none comes.
Relief so overwhelming it makes me want to weep rolls through me.
/> My body relaxes the tiniest bit. But I can’t look away. I can’t take my gaze from the bottle. I can’t move.
Her footsteps grow closer. They’re unsteady and uneven.
What will she think when she sees me? Will she hate me for my weakness? I do.
Will she pack her bag and leave? Who in their right mind would stay?
“What the hell?” Her voice cuts through the air, sharp and severe.
Slowly, I pull my gaze away from the bottle to meet her shocked expression. Fear flares in her irises. She holds her hands up and approaches me slowly, like she would an injured animal. The toe of her heel catches on the grout in the tile and she stumbles a bit but manages to catch herself on the edge of the island.
“What is this?” She grips the neck of the vodka bottle and yanks it away.
I let out a slow breath, my gaze still locked on where Claire holds the bottle.
She narrows her eyes at me before turning around. Quickly, she hurries to the bathroom. I lurch forward in my seat, my hands wrapping around the armrests of the barstool until my fingers ache.
Moments later I hear the toilet flush and anger and relief mix and swell in my chest.
She flushed it. Thank God she flushed it.
Claire reenters the kitchen, looking a bit more sober than she did five minutes ago. She’s barefoot now, and so damn beautiful, I want to wrap her in my arms and thank her for saving me again.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is hoarse, brimming with emotion.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Her expression softens, tenderness sweeping her eyes. “Why?”
“It was here when I got home.”
She closes her eyes but I don’t miss the pain that blooms in them. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, East.” Her eyes pop open again. “I am so fucking sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be. I needed to be tested.”
“You didn’t drink it. The seal was still intact.”
“I didn’t drink it.”
“But you wanted to.”
“More than you’ll ever understand,” I admit.
She lets out a shaky breath and strides toward me. In the next instant, I’m in her arms and she’s brushing her fingers through my hair. The sounds she makes are nonsensical but reassuring and I hold on to them. Is this what comfort is? Is this what forgiveness feels like?
