Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
And I’d be stupid to think she could fix me.
I spent Wednesday hiding. Hiding from the world, from my friends, from my thoughts. I ignored endless calls from endless people, buried under my duvet.
Hiding from the alcohol.
They can’t see me like this.
The moment I open my eyes on Thursday, I throw the sheets back and force myself out of bed, pulling my shorts on quickly and heading out the door. I run. I run so fast, so hard. I lose all feeling in my legs, and if I run even harder, even faster, I’m hoping I will lose all feelings everywhere. Be rid of this madness. Be numb.
Yet with the wind whooshing past, my eyes trained on the path before me, endless, tormenting flashbacks hound me, goad me, remind me of that extreme sense of unrestrained abandon. One by one, my bastard memories of Tuesday evening play out, a few agonizing splinters of my history joining the chaos in my head. “No.” My pace increases. Run away from them.
There’s something.
“Fuck!” I yell, my legs failing me, slowing, taking me down to a slower jog. Sweat pours from every pore, running into my eyes, and I come to a stop, rubbing into the sockets, the sting killing me. I’m forced to sit myself down on the grass, unable to see clearly. I also need to catch my fucking breath. I’m a mess. A broken, fucked-up mess, and I feel no better for having nearly killed myself running fuck knows how many miles.
I fall to my back and stare at the sky. I can’t run away. I’m trapped.
Lonely.
I’m at the mercy of my demons and, fuck, I could cry my fucking eyes out.
Helpless.
My phone rings, and I blindly reach into my pocket, pulling it out, hoping it’s Ava. The only voice I want to hear. Of course, it’s not her.
“Sarah,” I breathe, my lungs tight.
“I’m at your apartment,” she snaps impatiently. “Where the hell are you?”
In Hell. I don’t bite. I know she’ll be worried. I drag myself to my feet and start the long walk back to my rental. “Running.”
“Why is her car at The Manor?”
I bristle. I’d forgotten about her car. She’s not collected it? Will she ever collect it? “Drop it, Sarah.” Her huff of indignation rattles me more. I’m still blaming her for fucking it all up for me. “I’ll be at The Manor later. Go back. I’m sure you’ll survive without me until then.” I hang up, and the small pang of guilt only serves to piss me off more. Because if there’s one thing I’m certain of amid all of this uncertainty, it’s that Sarah really can’t survive without me.
* * *
I pull up at The Manor just past noon. John is in the driveway talking to a man in a white van, pointing at the cameras that line the front of The Manor. “Hard drive’s fucked,” he mutters as I approach, turning away from the guy and looking me up and down, assessing me. I look smart. I made a point of looking smart in an attempt to halt the barrage of questions that I know are awaiting me. I’m fine. Totally fine.
I pass him without a word, bypassing the bar and striding to my office. I walk in and close the door, finding a suit bag hanging on the back. I frown, my lagging brain failing to enlighten me. I reach forward and pull the zip down, and it finally comes to me before the navy suit is revealed. The Lusso launch tomorrow. I let out a light, sardonic puff of laughter. I think we can safely say I won’t be welcome.
“Jesse?”
The door flies open.
And smacks me in the face.
“Fuck,” I yell, the wood ricocheting off my forehead.
“Shit. Sorry.” She’s on me like a wolf, checking me over. “Why the hell are you standing behind the door?”
I bat her fussing hands away and rub my nose, checking for blood. Shit, my eyes are watering. “I was checking my new suit,” I grumble, going to the couch and sitting down, holding my throbbing nose. “If you’ve broken my fucking nose, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” she asks tiredly, halting my empty threat in its tracks. She closes the door and checks out my suit. “Nice. Special occasion?”
“No, I just fancied a new suit.” Or a new mask. I glare at her back. “Did you want something?”
She turns slowly. I don’t like the thoughtful look on her face. “Something’s been playing on my mind.”
Don’t ask, Ward. I narrow my eyes and go to my desk. Sarah joins me, crossing one leather-clad leg over the other, sitting back, getting comfortable, her accusing eyes nailed to me. “You didn’t need me to pack your apartment up at all, did you?”
“No, and it’s a good job since you didn’t fucking do it.” I start smashing at the keys on my laptop. What is it with her, sticking her fucking nose into my business all the time? Although, Sarah has always stuck her nose into my business. Not that I have much business outside the walls of The Manor. I’ve never been so defensive before. But now . . .