The thoughts of Bishop and my dad have been eating away at me ever since I left the US. Maybe the reason why it’s not affecting Tatum so much is because she’s always high or drunk—or having sex. Although I’m not ready for the sex part—and I don’t even know why, because it’s not like Bishop and I were together—I still feel like I’m betraying him. Why the fuck should I care if I’m betraying him though? He betrayed me! He lied, cheated, manipulated, and killed someone. He’s exactly—
“Make it stop, Tate,” I whisper through fresh tears as my throat clogs. A single tear trickles over my cheek and Tatum catches it with her index finger. She then grips my chin, turning me to face her. She searches my eyes, and for a second, she seems stone-cold sober. “We will make it stop together, Mads.”
Swallowing, I nod and take the joint from her. Lighting it up, I put it between my lips and inhale deeply until my lungs catch on fire and my throat turns to stone. Blowing out the smoke, a sputter of coughs come out of me, so I snatch the whiskey from her hand while passing her the joint. After twisting the cap, I bang on my chest and then put the tip to my lips and swallow, allowing the burning of the cheap whiskey to coat my already parched throat.
Tatum falls onto her back with the joint tucked between her lips and I lay back with her, the stars swimming in the dark abyss of the sphere, a bottle of whiskey between my fingers, and my hair sprawled out over the sand.
“Do you think he ever cared, Tate?” I whisper, tilting my head and lining up the southern cross that hangs brightly in the sky.
“Bishop? No. Nate? Yes.” She coughs loudly, banging on her chest. I sit up, taking a drink until the burning turns my throat numb and my head throbs with intoxication. Tatum passes me the joint. “Sorry, Mads. I just don’t think he did. But I wouldn’t take it personally. He doesn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.” I toke on the ganja, this time holding it in longer to intensify my buzz, and then blow it out slowly.
“Why the fuck can’t I bring myself to get laid.”
“That will come, babe. I said he didn’t care. I’m well aware that you did.”
“I’m stupid.”
“No.” Tatum shakes her head, handing me the whiskey. “No, you’re not. You’re Madison Montgomery, and you’re a fucking boss-ass bitch who feels, Mads. That’s a big deal. More people should feel.”
“Felt,” I whisper, my tears now dry. “They used me as their puppet. Now I’m broken.”
“Broken but hot, and who, by the way, has found a hot tattoo artist!”
I laugh, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth. “He is a bit hot, huh?”
“A bit?” Tatum looks offended. “Honey, he will do you fine until our next stop.”
“Have you decided where we’re going next?” I slur, my eyes narrowing on her to try to focus.
“Mmmm, Milan?”
“Spain?” I ask, shocked. “What about London? Can we do Bristol?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Just really want to find a hot British guy.”
“To bang, or to complain to me about how you can’t bang?”
I laugh, shoving her shoulder. “Shut up. Come on.” I get up off the sand and pull Tatum with me. Only we both spin out and… I’m falling. I land on the sand with a plonk, the hard surface sure to bruise my ass.
“Fuck!” Tatum curses behind a chuckle.
I can’t help it. Undiluted laughter erupts out of me, and I clutch my belly. “Holy shit.” I shake my head, my cheeks now aching from all the smiling.
“Well that’s a laugh I haven’t heard in a while.” Tatum clutches her stomach, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Yeah, I promise I’ll try to do it more.”
“MORNING, HOT STUFF.” TATUM WALKS into my room, a joint between her fingers.
“Morning,” I answer, pulling on some cutoff shorts and a tight tank. “Is this too much?”
“Nonsense!” Tatum hushes my insecurities, stepping forward and handing me the joint. She pushes my tits up and ruffles my hair. “This is a tattoo parlor!”
I bring the smoke to my lips and take a hit. “True!” I agree, before handing it back to her and walking out to the living room. Our apartment—or flat, as they call it here—is small. It has two bedrooms, a small living room, and a kitchenette that overlooks the main beach strip. We pay a small fortune to live here too, but it’s what Tatum wanted, and since she was the only one working at the time, I let her do it. Our savings are still healthy, thanks to Tatum working pretty much right away, but that’s the money we have to live on when we skip countries. The kitchenette is a mustard yellow, and the living room is neutral beige. It’s a beach house, and the family we rent it from also own the bar Tatum works at. It worked in our favor, and we were really lucky.