Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Just in case you’re thinking of doing somethin’ stupid,” he said before he plucked it from my hands with a smile. A smile! And that smile is the thing that’s confusing me.
They seem like nice guys, a little rough around the edges, but overall nice. But nice guys don’t snatch women from their homes and hold them against their will, so they are definitely on my not-nice-guys list.
“What the fuck?” The question echoes on the mostly empty walls around the room as I drop down on the hideous green chair in the corner. In twenty-four hours, my life has turned completely upside down, and I have no idea what the next twenty-four will look like.
A half-empty bottle of Jack sits on the mantel beside a few hardcover books and a photo of a bunch of bikers in leather vests in front of Angel Harbor Choppers.
I glance at the photo, but I don’t pay it much mind because it’s Jack that has my attention. He’s the only man I want at the moment.
“You won’t let me down, will ya, Jackie Boy?” There are no shot glasses or cups or any other drinking vessels around, and that suits me just fine since I plan to polish the bottle off as quickly as possible.
The first sip burns a little, as it always does, especially when it's warm, but the second sip is smooth and rich. And oh so delicious as the tingles hit my extremities and warmth permeates my body. I can feel my body start to relax, but my mind? That bitch refuses to shut her stupid mouth.
“I went from having a loving boyfriend to being in a domestic violence situation for trying to end it.” My third sip is more of a chug, and I don’t care. I’m alone in the room, and there’s no one in this world I want to impress any damn way.
“A goddamn statistic,” I say to the wall, “that’s what I’ve become. That’s what Cyrus made me. A statistic.”
My shoulders slump forward in defeat. I thought finding Cyrus represented a change in my romantic luck, a nice guy with a good job and a great head of hair. It turns out that Cyrus has the distinction of being the biggest asshole I ever met. He’s so adept at hiding his true nature that I’m not sure I can trust a man ever again.
“Ugh, now I sound like one of those women.” I shake my head and take another sip and then another, slamming the bottle on the small round table next to the ugly green chair with more force than necessary. I do sound like what Willow calls that girl, but I mean it. At my age, it’s safe to say that I’m one of those women who just isn’t cut out for love. For happy endings, white picket fences, and dad bods.
“Nope, I’m just old and tired. And alone. Again.”
It sounds even more pathetic when I say it out loud, a thought that deserves another drink. And another.
I keep drinking, hoping the Kentucky bourbon will wash away my loneliness, my disappointment—and anger—over the fact that I’m alone.
How could I have been so stupid to think love was in the cards?
There is no Mr. Right out there waiting for me, and if there is, he’s probably married with children already. No happy endings to go with the distinct lack of children in my life, lack of a social circle. Hell, what do I have other than For Goodness Cakes?
“Nothing,” I answer myself much louder than I need to, and the sound bounces off the walls. In my half-drunken state, it sounds like the walls are answering back in a mocking tone.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Warm tears blur my vision, which is fine by me since there’s nothing or no one I want to see right now. I’d love to see the inside of my living room, my brown sectional sofa that’s homey and functional, facing my big screen TV.
Eventually, the tears slide down my cheeks, one after another, after another, until a stream forms. The tears aren’t pretty, and I don’t give a rat’s ass because I don’t need to be pretty ever again, not for anyone but myself anyway.
“Let’s face it, even when I try, I’m not all that pretty,” I grumble and get off the ugly green chair in favor of the full-size bed where I drop down and lie back, the almost empty bottle of Jack dangling from my fingertips.
“Drunk and crying over my sorrows,” I snort and shake my head in disgust. “On top of all that, I am now a fucking cliché.”
My eyelids grow heavy, and I don’t know if it’s from the alcohol or the crying, and really, it doesn’t matter. Not much matters at this moment, so I lean into the tears and the anger and the rest of my old friend Jack Daniels, and I feel every fucking emotion that hits me like a Mack truck.