“Your face is tragic,” he mumbles lamely.
I laugh some more, finding I’ve missed messing with him and just being around his dumb-ass ways. He may be a tragic flirter and even more pathetic at comebacks, but he’s my friend. While under my partying rock, I blocked out all the strings to my old self, determined to block out the pain that came with it. But I realize that hasn’t worked, really. I’m still hurting every day. I’m hurting right now, but at least I get to genuinely enjoy myself with people I care about.
Well, some of the people I care about…
Mike sidles up between us, picking up one of the shots the bartender sets down on the lit bar. “I heard he was trying to blink. Did you enjoy the show?” He’s smiling in his eyes.
“Yeah, I think I’ll give it a five-star rating online.” I grab a glass for myself, laughing at his eye roll.
“Fuck you both,” he sneers, grabbing a shot glass. He tries to scare us by squinting his eyes at us, but we just smile like we’re being tickled.
“No thanks,” we say in unison.
“Fellas.” I wave a hand, gesturing to the other guys we came with. Once they all have their shots, we count to three before downing the drinks. It feels like hell going down, but it’ll feel like heaven in a while. The sharp sting has been familiar for a few months now, but it doesn’t dull the pain. Ever.
“Oh shiiiit—this is my song.” Ty rolls his neck and starts to shake his shoulders but stops when he notices our odd stares. Straightening with blood-red cheeks, he pops his collar and leans against the bar. “I mean—fuck yeah! This is my shit! Let’s go and find some ladies to dance with.”
“Riiiight,” Mike and I drawl, narrowing our eyes.
“I have had enough with you two!” he shouts and gives us a stink-eye before storming onto the dance floor.
“He’s so adorable,” I say with a sigh.
“I know, right?” Mike shrugs.
We share a glance then burst into laughter. Instead of mock-making fun of our friend, we join him on the dance floor. He’s already dancing against a black-haired girl in a tight blue sparkly dress, winking and all. I’m shocked that he got her to dance with him.
The song changes about ten times as we find partners and dance. I have a pretty girl with red hair, dressed in a short pink skirt and tube top, grinding against me. I hold her hips and move to the beat of the techno song. It’s fast paced, and my heart feels like a bullet flying all around inside of me. My body buzzes with the same ferocity I’ve been met with for the past few months. The electricity begins under the soles of my feet and ends between my temples.
I purchase two shots when a female waiter weaves through the gyrating crowd. I applaud her for carrying out the task; it must be near impossible to navigate through this crowd. People are clumped together like a pack of animals in a frenzy to mate. The air reeks of sweat and cheap cologne and floral perfume. I tried breathing through my mouth—but oh God, was that a mistake. I freaking tasted the polluted air.
By the time I down my third shot of the night from a different, but courageous, waiter, my vision is tilted, and I feel lighter, more energized. I jump around and enjoy myself, feeling my brain numb and my feelings being swept under a rug.
The girl sways her hips and faces me; her face is caked in makeup, and usually I appreciate the time girls take to do it, but it just hides her pretty brown eyes and freckles, one of which she missed with her foundation. But she didn’t have to use any.
I like girls who wear little to no makeup, leaving their vivid blue eyes fresh, full lips naturally pink, lip ring…
Oh, fuck me.
“Well, okay. My place or yours?” the girl says with a self-satisfied smirk.
Huh? “What are you…oh.” I said that out loud. Blushing, I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean it…you…I mean.” My head is tilting one too many degrees to the right. I stumble and catch myself, throwing a thumb over my shoulder. “I have to go now. It was nice dancing with you. You have nice…nice eyes,” I slur.
Maybe three shots in under an hour wasn’t such a good idea…or I need more to stop being a prude, to stop the freaking images from filling my head.
She pouts. “But—”
I whirl around and slice through the crowd. I easily lose her prowling eyes, taking a seat at the end of the bar. My head drops onto the white bar swirling with soft colors. I groan. I want to drink this entire bar-full if it will permanently erase her face and the memories associated with it from my brain. Even if I have to get a few stomach pumps, it’d be worth it.
I lift my head and cup my hands over my face. “I am a mess.” And I ain’t wrong. I look around, trying to find inspiration to lose myself, to not think about that toxic girl. She broke me into a million different pieces. And all she had to say for herself was: I’m sorry. She also told me: I love you. You can trust me. Obviously, she lied and never loved me. And now I’m on the verge of crying while in the club.
“What the fuck?” I groan.
I walk over to the middle of the bar, squat on a stool. I stare into the crowd aimlessly, zombie-like, sluggish. I spot my friends almost immediately. They are having the time of their lives, jumping around and dancing with decent girls that are definitely gonna be in their beds tonight. I should be with them, doing the same. Having fun. Yet I’m sitting on a stool, staring into the crowd of people having fun like a dope.
I’m about to turn and order a line of shots just so I can blackout and push through this numb self-hatred when I see something. A wave of golden hair in the air. And then, for a few seconds…nothing. I wait for it to appear, but I relax and wonder when I’d tensed up. I look away and order a whiskey and Coke.
I face the crowd again and see it again! It’s hair. And then hair again, and then I squint. A few people are blocking the owner of the seemingly soft blonde hair. And then there are hands curling into the air. Those hands, that hair—they’re made to enchant you, put you under a majestic spell or curse or both.
As if hearing my complaint, the people two-step out of the way, and my heart drops.
Red.
She’s gyrating sensuously, throwing her hair around and shaking her hips. They roll, and I stare down at her smiles that go on forever and ever. She’s wearing a short rose-red dress that has a plunging neckline that stops between her breasts.
My mouth waters while my brain goes haywire after months of radio silence.
Instead of tuning her out after finding out what she did, I messaged her like crazy. Texts, calls, voicemails, emails—the whole sha-bang, all without any kind of response. After months of trying to smother the pain with alcohol, and working out, and kissing then ditching willing girls—I’ve tried to get her out of my head.
And here she is.
Dancing like she didn’t break my heart.
I swear, I start to cry.
And then our eyes meet as if something whispered in her ear, telling her to look up.
Electrons zap under my skin, and the hair on the back of my neck rises. My heart slows down, and my breathing skips a few paces. Her eyes widen, and she’s frozen still like she was zapped with a stun-gun. Then her face softens, and I find myself stumbling to my feet.
I need to feel her.
See her closer.
I need to…need to…
She’s gone.
I blink once, and she’s disappeared. I look in the crowd frantically, searching for gold hair and a red dress—she would have stood out, but she doesn’t because she’s gone. Again. Or I literally just envisioned it because I’m losing my fucking mind.
I slump back at the bar, paying the bartender for my sweating mixed drink of whiskey and Coke.
I gulp it down without even a wince.
I don’t like this. Don’t like myself. I reel back to a year ago in my Red-muddled brain; I was partying it up in Bangkok. Hands on the waist of a gorgeous Thai woman, dancing without a care, and genuinely enjoying myself. I’d paint in the morning aft
er a wonderful night in bed with her, then I’d travel the land during the day, stuff my face with their food, educate myself a great deal, then do it all over again for a few weeks until I felt spiritually, mentally, emotionally full.
I was so happy with who I was, what I did…and now I’m a pathetic, miserable guy who imagines seeing his manipulative, lying, robber ex-girlfriend in the middle of a club after turning down a pretty girl’s offer to fuck.
I need a breath of fresh air.
Stumbling to the nearest door, which is the back door, I find myself in an alley. The walls are sweating, and the floor is doing the tango with my feet. I trip over a glass bottle, falling to my knees. So pathetic…
“…fucking prick!” a muffled voice shrieks.
My head bobs to my left. I don’t know how I didn’t see them before. There’s a guy and girl making out near the mouth of the alley.
“Sorry,” I say, pushing to my feet.
“It’s okay.” The older man smiles. He has yellow teeth, and the hand covering the girl’s mouth is wearing a fingerless glove.
Wait…
“You fucking bitch!” the man screams, punching the girl to the ground.
I run over and punch him in the mouth. He falls to the ground, unconscious. “Asshole!” I shout, shaking out my aching hand. My breathing is rough, and I stumble a bit as circles build behind my eyes. I need to sit, but I also need to check on the girl.
“I am so sorry; are you okay?” I turn to her, and striking blue eyes stare up at me…underneath a sheer curtain of golden hair. Her short red dress is near her upper thighs, her breathing as sharp as mine.
“Hey, prep,” she slurs, heavier than me, and I wonder how much she’s had to drink. Her head lolls backward, ready to hit the pavement. I drop to my knees and catch her before she does.
My voice breaks as I whisper, “Red.”
Chapter Three
Red
The darkness begins to fade as I open my eyes. My head feels swollen, my limbs made of metal. I blink rapidly and wince at the sunlight hitting my eyes. I roll over in the soft sheets and smile. They smell like fresh flowers and…hold on. My sheets don’t usually smell like this. Or feel this soft, ever.
Panic shoots through me, and I sit up quickly. Bad. Fucking. Idea.
“Oh, shit, shit, shit!” I curse loudly as my head spins. I sit back against the headboard and let my head catch up with itself. My stomach grumbles beneath the thick white comforters, and I groan. How much did I have to drink? I look around, and my heart quickens. Must’ve been enough that I’d end up in someone else’s home.
I’m sitting in a gigantic bed in an even larger room. There’s a flat-screen TV above a dark dresser with lots of drawers. I look around, and my jaw drops. There’s a mini—most likely—expensive chandelier in the middle of the room and a gray fan above my head.
To my right is a span of tall glass windows that showcase the bustling city below. There’s even a damn mini living room a few feet away, and a vanity, and a door that probably leads to a private bathroom.
“Well, fuck me in the ass and call me Monica Lewinsky,” I mutter under my breath. My God-awful breath. Shit. I smell like I rolled around in hot dog shit then skipped through the sewers.
I am never drinking again. A pledge everyone thinks but never follows through. But I think I mean it this time. Seriously. Everything hurts, stings, or smells like shit puree.
As I stumble into the immaculate bathroom that’s three times the space of my own apartment, I push through the fog clouding last night’s events. I splash cold water on my face and look into the massive mirror. My hair is a tousled mess, my eyeliner on my cheek, dark rings under my eyes. I splash some more water on my face, then rub it harshly. As I do, I try my best to piece together what happened last night and how I got here…wherever here is.
I remember Majesty convincing me to attend some new club downtown. I’d just come back into town after staying with my grandpa. I’d told him I missed him and wanted to help around the house, keep Harley company when she came home on the weekends. But she barely notices my presence, hardly ever has since we were young, and he keeps himself busy fishing most of the time. Keeping himself busy with the still recent loss of my grandma.
It hurts to say, but I wasn’t there for either of them; I was there for myself, because of what…of what I did.
My heart twists in my chest, and I turn the sink off. I still in the silence, marinate in it. What I did echoes through my head, hearing his voice for the last time before I hung up like the coward I was. I chucked my phone into the lake and broke down on the side of the bridge. I didn’t want any of the money I got from his…from the watch. I didn’t want it after I ruined the last good thing I had in my life.
Instead of reminiscing, I straighten up and wave the poisonous thoughts away. There’s a brush on the counter and wipes in the counter below the sink. I pull out the baby wipes and swipe away any evidence of my makeup.
I’m left with a fresh face, swollen blue eyes, pursed pink lips, and my face piercings. Ignoring the bags under my eyes that have been there for months, I run the brush through my thick hair. I really need to trim this beast.
“Focus, Red,” I tell myself quietly. I need to get out of here; I’ve already overstayed my welcome. I try my best to keep my mind on not tripping over my feet as I wander through the many long hallways, but memories of last night invade my head. I let them since I don’t have much recollection of the night before.
I remember dancing behind Majesty’s back to some trashy pop song. I recall her leaving to get more drinks and following her to the bar with my eyes. Lord only knows creeps and rapists lurk in the dark crevices of their playground. I get distracted for only a moment, letting my hair fly all around. My hands are twisting in the air, and I’m actually enjoying myself. I hadn’t in such a long time, it felt like I was committing a crime.
Turning down a hallway with colorful paintings that are actually kind of beautiful, I hear grunting noises and the soft purr of a machine. I stop walking and hold my breath. Accents of music fuse with the sounds of a person working out, and a familiar knot builds itself inside of my stomach. I stumble into the wall, the memories attacking me now.
I’m bouncing around, swaying my hips—hair flying—when it happens. I see him. And he sees me. And shock and fright run through me like a marathon runner. They slither around my feet and yank me to the ground when a group of people block the path toward his warm green eyes. Like a coward, I crawl on the ground, bumping into people, before crouching and darting to the back door.
I’m panting for air, wondering aloud if God is planning his revenge for me breaking one of his purest angels’ hearts, when a bum grabs me. I am so busy wondering if I’ve seen a ghost, if it is a curse or gift, when he pins me to the sweating brick wall. I snap out of my trance long enough to knee him in his scrawny balls. I am wrenching myself from him when he slaps me and I tumble to the ground. I would have been up on my feet, kicking his ass MMA style, if not for the countless shots and other alcoholic drinks I consumed on behalf of Majesty’s encouragement.
He has me pinned again, and I am cursing him out in his dirty-ass palm, when the door to the club bolts open. I look to the side and my heart skips a thousand beats for a hundred days.
Noah.
I scream, and he slaps me discreetly, pushing me harder into the wall. The pain bursting behind my eyeballs only intensifies as he squeezes a hand at my neck. I am getting ready to kick him in the shins when Noah punches him to the ground.
Exhausted and a victim of alcohol, I fall to the ground…but not before my sweet, pure, broken Angel catches me. Even after what I did to him, the pain I caused him—he is still the kind boy who catches me…and carries me into a taxi and ever so gently tucks me into bed.
“Oh, Noah,” I groan loudly, but it’s too late to quiet down, as I am thrown back into the present. The physical pain transforms into the emotional kind. I hear his humored voice over the phone a
s I’m standing on the side of the bridge. I feel the salt burn my eyes from my tears as I say his name, say goodbye, destroy his beaming soul.
I immediately know where I am, and I need to get away as far as possible before I do anymore harm. I should have never come back. I should have stayed away. And not just for a few months. For good. I have hurt him enough. I need to stop hurting him and just finally go. It’s what he deserves, what he needs.
With an alarming need to vanish, I push off the wall with a new sense of energy and begin down the hallway. Clutching my heels in my right hand, gliding my left on the white walls, I am close to the end of the hall. But I stop and freeze when I briefly hear the door open and his voice.
“Leaving again? I can’t say I’m surprised.” His voice is deeper somehow, more relaxed and confident. He’s always been a flirty boy, light-humored and self-assured, but this…this is a whole shade different—it is darker, angrier.
I don’t turn around. I can’t face him or I’ll break down. I know I sound selfish, and I am being a cruel bitch by thinking of myself…but I’m also thinking of him. Of how fucking pissed he is. I’d only be fueling his anger, and I don’t want that for him. Not anymore.
I know how much he has changed for the worst since I left…and I want nothing more than to wipe his mind clean up until the moment he’d met me and vanish again, this time for good. He’d live in a bubble world where Red Sylvetti, the person who burned him to ashes, existed. Where I didn’t exist. Hell, I’d be doing myself a favor.
I am not a coward for shielding myself from him, but someone who is trying to save what she broke.
I take a step forward, when he says—
“Remember when I said every time you left, I hated you a little bit more?”
My heart squeezes in anticipation. I close my eyes, feel his painful words wrap around my neck, let it do its worst. Let him wreck me a fraction of what I’ve caused him.
“I meant it then, and I sure as hell mean it a lot more now,” he finishes just as I expected, and I take a staggering step backward. I frantically scamper forward. I can’t let myself fall back into him; I need to keep going forward. Keep leaving him, even if it hurts us both each time, because even if he doesn’t realize it yet, it will hurt a lot less in the long run.
Red: Fiery Finale (Spectrum Series Book 8) Page 2
