by Mia Kayla
I was tired of hearing his excuses, tired of him blowing me off. "Are you going to meet that CEO tonight?" I held my breath, holding out for any last ounce of faith I had in a man I’d spent most of my young adult life loving.
"I have to, Angie." His voice broke with finality, but so did my heart. "I promise I'll make it up to you."
There was a first for everything, right? I just couldn't believe that this was my new beginning. I threw the phone across the room, and, for the first time ever, sobbed myself to sleep. On my birthday.
Weary, warm, waterfall tears coursed down my cheeks and onto the pillow. I clutched the pillow closer to my chest and curled into myself. Deep down, I knew—I knew in my heart that this was truly the end. We weren’t on a break, having a fight, taking a time out.
Work had been coming before me for a long time, and I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t suffer through that for a lifetime.
I wouldn’t.
What I thought would be my happily-ever-after, my dream come true, had ended a long time ago.
It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay, I repeated to soothe myself. Though I thought my heart had known this was coming, it still hurt. It still hurt to think of Roland not in my life. But being in a relationship didn’t define me, and once I was done grieving, I knew I’d come out of this stronger.
Chapter 8
Later that night I ended up at Allswell. I needed someone to talk to, vent to, and I craved the emotional intimacy that I'd experienced with Cade in the alley. My family would never understand my frustrations with Roland, whom they adored. And I wasn't ready to tell them yet. I didn't know how.
The car sat in park as I watched a few patrons leave the restaurant. When my stomach grumbled, indicating dinnertime, I stepped out, pulled my suit jacket shut and entered the restaurant. I had flown out of my new condo with such a hungry desperation for food and wine that I'd forgotten to change out of my skirt suit.
My hands wrapped around my middle as the blast from the air vent sent a chill right through me. Cade was nowhere to be seen, but I proceeded to the bar anyway. There was no way I was going home, and I had no other place to go. If I went back home, my father would know something was wrong, and the last thing I wanted to do was stress him out.
After plopping my butt on the stool, I lifted my hand for service. Forget food and wine, I needed hard liquor. "Cranberry and vodka," I told the bartender.
The tall brunette’s hands flew to the vodka bottle, the other on an empty glass.
"Is Cade here?"
She used the dispenser to pour cranberry in the glass and glided my concoction in my direction. “He’s in the back. I’ll get him.” She called out his name, and when he strolled in, my lips parted, and heavenly havoc reigned in my heart.
The moment our eyes met, my whole body gravitated toward his as though he was fire and I needed the voodoo of my foul mood melted.
"Bad night?" he asked.
"You can say that." I slumped against the counter and reached for my drink.
"Men problems, money problems? Or is it your job? Is someone making it difficult at work?" The corners of his mouth tipped up, and the chill in me dimmed.
He leaned forward in a cocky manner. "I'm a bartender, which sort of classifies me as a psychiatrist, except I don't prescribe drugs, I make drinks. So, go ahead, tell me your problems." That damn sexy crooked smile was back on his face, and I couldn't help but be amused.
From below the bar, he took out a shot glass, poured some tequila and placed it in front of me. "Drink."
"I have a drink." I lifted my dark colored beverage.
"You need stronger meds."
I did. I'd come here to talk, to forget, to cool off. To all of the above and all at once.
Taking what the doctor ordered, I didn't even hesitate as I downed the shot. The hard liquor burned the back of my throat. I covered my mouth and began to cough.
When the patrons down the bar and Kristy all turned my direction, Cade let out a humorous, low laugh.
"I should’ve given you less."
He handed me a napkin, and I wiped some of the liquid that had trickled from the side of my mouth. Resting his arms on the bar, he gave me a pointed look. "Why are you here, Angel?"
"What, no flirting? Now you want to get rid of me?" I tried to make my voice light, but anyone could sense the tinge of sadness behind my tone.
His smile tightened, and concern crossed his features. “It's not fun flirting with you when you're like this. Talk."
My gaze dropped to my hands that were gripping the glass too tightly. "It's Roland." My hands trembled, matching the quiver in my voice.
He nodded once, understanding. "The boyfriend has a name."
"Ex," I corrected him.
"Really, now." He rubbed at his jaw with his forefinger and thumb. "This is interesting. Plot twist."
"I'm serious, Cade. It’s over." There was finality in that one word. Death. Death of a relationship.
I needed someone to talk to who would simply listen. No snide comments. Joking aside, I needed a comforting ear.
From the look on my face, I sensed he knew it. "Okay, Angel. Talk."
Then the words I’d kept inside for days flew out. "I've just had enough. He’s so involved with work. It’s late nights, early mornings, and working all weekend. I was living with a man I barely saw, barely knew anymore. He’d changed. He is full of empty promises." The vodka and cranberry liquid swished in my glass. "I’ve always been second best to his job, and I’m sick and tired of waiting for him to come back to me.” I was tired of pretending I was happy in front of everyone else and trying to convince myself that I was happy. Sometimes when you lie long enough, you tend to believe the lies. “I ended it before I started believing our fake fairy tale."
I was now lumped in as one of those people that went to the bar, drowned all their sorrows in liquor and disclosed all their problems to the local bartender. I peered up and pushed the shot glass in his direction. "Another dose, please."
He nodded and filled me up. When I snapped back the shot glass, the burn down my throat lessened.
"I can do better than his false promises, but then I think of all the time we've been together. I've been with him since high school. He's the first boy that ever kissed me, my first boyfriend, my first everything, and my family absolutely adores him."
I pushed my shot glass back in his direction, finally feeling warmer and more loosened up.
"Did you eat?" he asked.
"I'm not hungry anymore."
"That's not an answer."
I nodded toward my empty glass. He hesitated at first, but then poured me another shot.
"Our mothers are practically planning our wedding. I love his mother. She's sweet and kind, and our families get along so well. And I haven't even told them yet. I don't even know where to start." My stomach rolled, but I welcomed the feeling. It was this or feel sorry for myself. I’d take numb over self-pity.
I pushed my shot glass in his direction, my mixed drink neglected and forgotten.
He shook his head, amused. "I think you've had enough."
"No,” I whined. “You're my shrink. Don't cut me off. I need more meds." There was an intense ringing in my ears as my eyes glossed over, but I wasn’t ready to slow down. "More."
"Answer me this first," he said, his tone serious. "Are you in love with him?"
His question shocked me. No one had ever asked me that question before. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? "Of course, I love him." How could I not after all we'd shared together? My stomach churned, and I knew it was from one too many shots.
He shook his head. "Are you in love with him? Loving him because he's all you've ever known, or loving him because your family loves him versus being in love? There's a difference, Angel."
One hand flew to my throat. He was right. I’d been in a drawn-out relationship for so long that I’d forgotten the difference. "I used to write his name with hearts on everything I owned ... I can't believe we ended up like
this." It wasn't an answer, but it was all I would give him. Anything else would be too personal. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're done." I pushed the shot glass again in his direction. "More."
Indecision crossed his features, but I added the puppy dog face and a "Please." He hesitated at first, but couldn't resist and poured me another shot.
Just what the doctor prescribed.
Time passed by. Kristy left, and the bar and restaurant were spotless. Who knew what time it was? Who the heck cared? I sure didn't as I sipped my whatever-was-in-my-glass-drink, listening to Cade's stories and slumping against the bar.
Cade was drinking a bottled water in the stool beside me, displaying a wide grin. I slipped off my jacket, and my thin silk blouse clung to my body. One too many drinks had me a little warmer than normal.
All I knew was I was having a grand ole time, and I wasn't blaming it on the liquor. It was the gray-eyed, tattooed male in front of me. Learning about his past and his family intrigued me.
"Yeah, about my brothers,” he went on. “My parents were foster parents, so there were kids in and out of our home. Jordan and Wyatt are my brothers, but not by blood. I bonded with them on a level I never did with the other kids. Plus, they permanently stayed."
There were so many facets of this man I barely knew that I needed to know more about. He was like an unfinished book, and I needed to get to the very end.
"Do you have any biological siblings?" I asked.
"Yeah." He turned, and pain passed through his features. "My sister." He choked out the words as though his throat was closing up and a huge, painful knot formed inside my chest.
The atmosphere turned tense when Cade tore his gaze from mine, and in typical Angelica fashion, it was my job to make things better, so I placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed.
“Do you want to talk about her?” I wanted to know more about his family without prying too much, so I let him take the lead on the direction he wanted to take our conversation.
He focused on where we were connected and cleared his throat before whispering, “No. Not right now. I just can’t.” A sad silence swallowed the space between us, and I stared at his face, bleak with sorrow.
He lifted his head and offered me a forced smile. “How about you? Do you have a big family?”
He was changing the subject on me, but I’d bite because I’d do anything to erase the desolate look in his eyes.
"I always wanted a bigger family. I don't have any brothers, but I do have Tene, and she's my best friend.” I took a swig of my drink, thinking of my sister and all we’d been through. “She totally thinks I'm too good for Roland, but then again, I think she'd think no man is good enough for her little sister."
"What if I told you I thought you were too good for Roland?" The line of his mouth tightened, his steady gaze serious.
"I'd tell you that your opinion in the matter is a little biased. You want to get into my pants." I laughed and averted my gaze, embarrassed that the words slipped out. Funny how liquor was the truth serum. My brain to mouth filter seemed to be out of service.
"Pants or no pants, from what you've already told me, and what your sister—who I think is a no bullshit type of girl—has said, I think you made a smart decision by dumping the loser."
I sighed, then drummed my fingers against the bar while memories of our past and how our families were so interconnected bombarded my brain. "My parents think he's perfect for me."
"Do you always do what your parents want you to do?" He cocked an eyebrow.
His questions were making me dig deeper today. Although I was the obedient child, I was never with Roland because of my parents. And I certainly didn’t stay with Roland simply because they thought he was perfect for me.
I blinked, and in response to his question, I downed my drink. My stomach flipped and flopped as a dizzying current ran through me. "Yes, I do. But parents want the best for their children, so what's wrong with that?"
I stood then gripped the chair for support. "More, please?" The room spun around me, and I closed my eyes to stop the nausea about to take over.
Warm hands gripped my shoulders, and I leaned into him for support, enjoying the heat of his body against mine. God, it felt good to be next to him, to feel the strength of him, especially since the liquor made me queasy and my emotional state was shot.
"You're cut off. Done." His voice was light, though I knew he meant business.
My arms wrapped around his middle for support, and I leaned into his steel frame. He smelled of sweat and beer and cologne and all manly goodness. I buried my nose in his shirt, and he laughed.
His face creased with a small smile. "I think you’re officially wasted, Angel. Do you want me to call you a cab home?"
I rested my chin on his chest, staring up at him with teenage googly eyes. Gosh, was he thoughtful and handsome and everything all wrapped up in a pretty bad boy inked package, just like Christmas.
I licked my lips, and slow and seductively his eyes slid downward to my mouth.
The liquor was hitting me hard, and my head was spinning in circles. "I want to kiss you." I guess with the liquor came a lack of morals.
His smile was jaw-droppingly beautiful and drew me in like a magnet. "We can't," he said, though his body language, the way he pulled me in, told me he very much wanted the same thing I did.
"Why?" I whined, sounding annoyed. The alcohol. I’m blaming the alcohol.
His smile disappeared from his handsome face. With one finger, he lifted my chin and angled forward until we were almost nose to nose.
His nose skimmed my chin, then glided up to my ear. "Those lips are so fucking kissable." I released an audible sigh as he kept speaking. "What I would do to kiss those lips." His nose made its way down my temple to my neck. He placed a light kiss on the crook of my neck that sent tingles throughout my body, a sensation that went from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. "But I won't." His lips trailed tiny kisses up my neck and back to my ear. "Because you're drunk, and when I kiss you," his warm breath tickled the outer rim of my ear, "I want you to remember."
"No fair." I rested my head on his chest as his hand went continuously up and down my back. The nonstop motion caused the tightness in my shoulders to loosen. "I'm sleepy. So tired." All the tension from work and my problems with Roland had worn me down.
"Sleep, my Angel,” he said softly. Then he whispered three words that I was used to saying to everyone else. “I've got you."
My whole body relaxed against him, then I felt something tight wrap around my legs, and it was like I was floating on air.
Chapter 9
The pounding in my head accelerated, and as soon as I opened my eyes, I shut them tightly again as light registered in my brain. It was as though every sensory element in my mind was heightened, making my stomach queasy and equilibrium unstable.
"The garbage is right by the bed," a familiar voice spoke.
Sexy. Sultry. Masculine. That voice could only belong to one person.
Cade.
I jolted to a sitting position, pulling the sheets closer to my chest. The abrupt movement had my head spinning.
Cade was in all his wonderful glory, shirtless with only his boxers on. He sat on the edge of the bed, placed a hand on my shoulder and ushered me gently against the headboard. "Rest."
Angelica Armstrong. Think, think, think. What have you done?
I remembered drinking.
And more drinking ...
And the last thing I recalled was laughing, though the rest was fuzzy. I most definitely did not know the specifics of how I had gotten into his room, or worse ... into his bed.
My eyebrows pulled together as I tried to calm my hammering pulse. I drew my shaky palm to the top of my hair as my other hand began to fan myself. In about two seconds, I knew I was going to have a nervous breakdown.
I took deep breaths in my nose and out through my mouth in a repetitive motion to calm myself. But it wasn’t working.
"Ange
l, uh ... you don't look too good." His tone heightened with worry. "Are you okay?"
I shook my head vigorously; the room was spinning faster and faster, my body uneasy, my stomach woozy. Then I tried to stop the dizzying effect the room had on my senses by staying as still as possible.
He knelt right next to me, asking me again, then placing one hand on the sheet that covered my thigh. "I'll grab you some water."
He shifted, and the small movement caused my stomach to flip erratically. And that's when the gurgling in my belly began, and the queasiness in the pit of my stomach spread to the top of my throat.
I threw one arm over my mouth and tried to push myself off the bed when the oversized shirt rose to the top of my thighs, and I realized I didn't have any underwear on, shocking me and stopping me in my spot. That hesitation had me done for, and it was too late. I cupped both hands to my mouth, but not before I threw up everywhere. On his bed. On his sheets. All over myself.
Tears sprang, from embarrassment, from guilt. I couldn't even wipe them off my face and prevent them from falling because there was vomit in my hands.
"Angel, you're going to be okay." He scurried to the bathroom and came back with a basin and washcloth in one hand, while he held a small trash can in the other.
I emptied my hands into the garbage.
"Don't. I can do it," I said through muffled sobs and wiping my mouth with the edge of my sleeve.
He leaned in, so close, I knew he could smell the foul stench of whatever had been in my stomach.
"Stop," I begged, not able to look him in the eyes.
He folded the soiled sheets over, knelt beside me and reached for my palm, not caring that I was still filthy, and wiped down each finger. He dipped the washcloth in the basin, rinsed it and repeated the motion of wiping me clean. "Relax. This is me taking care of you."
More tears surfaced at his gentleness, at the softness in his tone, at the tenderness of his touch. I wanted to tell him that wasn't his job, but I didn't, afraid to speak, afraid to move because my mind was mush and my stomach was uneasy, and the guilt was overwhelming.
