Recipe for Love Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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I’d always thought if I kept hold of myself, if I didn’t give anything too much power over me, it would mean that my brother would be able to get his power back. We were connected after all.

But that had obviously been bullshit.

I didn’t know how fucked-up it was to be getting drunk in order to try to deal with my twin brother dying of an overdose. I didn’t care much at that point.

That was the wonderful effect of whiskey. The first two tasted like shit, but after that, I barely noticed. I came to crave the burn at the back of my throat.

I was slumped at the bar, staring into nothing, thinking about nothing. It was nice.

But every now and then, memories would rush in. The service at the park. Ansel’s friends. Their tears, their laughter, the stories about my brother. They loved him. They knew him. But no one could tell me what happened. What triggered him to go back to the thing that killed him.

“Sometimes there is no answer, honey,” Gunner had told me gently. “Not one we can know. Ansel took it with him. Just know that he didn’t want to leave. He just didn’t know how to stay, feeling the pain we couldn’t see.”

His words had been wise and comforting, but they didn’t stop me from staying up, racking my brain, searching for a reason why my brother picked up the needle again.

There was a chasm in my stomach, one that told me Ansel had taken that reason to the grave.

Which was why I was trying to fill that chasm with whiskey.

Night had fallen. I’d left the bakery in the afternoon. Hadn’t told anyone where I was going. Which wasn’t much like me. They’d be worried.

Normally, I’d care about worrying people. Causing them any kind of harm.

But I couldn’t care. I didn’t have the energy.

“You haven’t come in here before.” The smell of cologne and sweat assaulted my senses.

I blinked away from my glass to see a man perched on the barstool next to me. He’d pulled it closer than it had been before. Much too close. His arm brushed against mine.

I didn’t like that. Not at all. But moving seemed like far too much effort.

“I would’ve remembered you,” he continued.

The man in question was younger than me. Early twenties, maybe. We lived in a small town, and I might not know every resident, but the bakery was frequented by almost everyone in our town, so I at least knew people on sight.

He wasn’t from town, this guy. With his bronzed skin, his Ralph Lauren sweater, the navy pants and the Gucci loafers, he reminded me far too much of Nathan.

“Well, you can forget me,” I told him. “I have no intention of being remembered tonight or remembering anything for that matter.” I turned my attention back to my drink, pissed off to find out that I had finished it at some point.

I looked down the bar, which had become decidedly busier since I’d arrived this afternoon. The bartender was at the other end, serving three different sets of people. The music was loud, loud enough to drown out the hum of conversation or for anyone to hear me where I sat, tucked away from everyone. My position had been purposeful… I wanted to be alone.

Now that seemed like a bad idea. No one noticed me. No one noticed the unwanted attention I was getting.

The man who obviously was not okay with taking no for an answer ran his finger along my exposed arm. “How about I buy you another drink?”

My skin felt dirty from the touch. Another man touching skin that wasn’t his without my permission launched me out of my contemplation.

“Fuck off!” I screamed in his face.

The music in the place was loud enough that not very many people heard me, and the ones who did were drunk enough to not take much notice.

The man whose face I screamed in did notice and was at least sober enough to rear back in shock.

But the shock in his expression quickly passed to anger, the default emotion for rejected men.

“Crazy fucking bitch,” he muttered before walking away.

A girl couldn’t even wallow in peace. I sighed and stumbled off my seat to use the restroom.

The ground underneath my feet swayed, but luckily, the walls offered excellent opportunities to catch my balance.

Right up until I was slammed against one wall, that was.

“You fucking bitch,” Ronnie snarled, holding me against the wall by my neck.

“The second time I’ve been called that in two minutes,” I muttered. “It must be some kind of record.”

“You ruined my fucking life,” he hissed, leaning right into my face. His breath smelled like booze. Or maybe it was mine. Regardless, his eyes were bloodshot, he was sweaty and needed a shower badly.

He was also mad. Mad enough to grab me by the throat in a busy bar.


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