“Put on the dress, pull yourself together, get your ass downstairs, and smile,” she seethed lowly, unable to hide the little tremor in her voice.
I said nothing, only lifted my chin in defiance. Nothing would ever be the same between us.
Spinning around, she left the room without another word. I listened to her heels clicking down the hall until the sound faded before exhaling. She had crossed the line today, one I wasn’t likely ever to forget.
I pressed a hand to my cheek and winced. She’d hit me. The bitch actually hit me. Sitting down gingerly at my vanity, I checked out my face and was shocked to see a cherry handprint already forming on my cheek. Would it bruise?
Fucking wonderful.
Just one more thing for people to talk about at school on Monday. I was sure Carter would spin the rumors that I’d been beaten up. And probably deserved it too.
A grim smile tugged at my lips as I shook my head. No way in hell was I going to her fucking party now.
I had to get the hell out of here. I couldn’t be at the house, not with all those people showing up. I couldn’t pretend that we were some sort of happily blended family. I couldn’t keep up the farce. Not today.
Grabbing my handbag off the dresser, I tiptoed downstairs, listening as Angie complained about the dust on the fireplace mantel. I hooked around the corner in the opposite direction and ducked into Steven’s study to snatch a bottle of bourbon. What was it with rich people and bourbon?
It wasn’t my drink of choice but would get the job done. That was all I cared about.
Getting out of the house was a cinch. No one looked twice at me or bothered to ask me what I was doing, the staff too busy with Angie’s constant demands.
I contemplated taking the Lexus out for a spin, but with the bottle weighing heavy in my hand, I decided against it. Even as hurt and spitting mad as I was, I still wasn’t stupid enough to drink and drive.
Besides, walking, along with the night air, might help clear my head. I had my pepper spray and cellphone in my purse. All my bases were covered.
I started the long trek down the driveway just as the first few cars started to arrive. Unscrewing the bottle, I took my first swing, letting the smooth and warm liquid coat my throat.
By eight o’clock, I had been wandering for two hours, the bottle half gone and me along with it. My new friend, bourbon, dulled the sting across my cheek, and I was feeling pretty good.
Stumbling down the path, I pulled out my phone, thinking about calling Ainsley. She was always up for a drink, but I remembered she had plans tonight. Without me.
That was a sobering thought and killed a bit of my happy buzz. I took another pull from the bottle in an attempt to get back to that blissful place.
My thoughts drifted to Brock Taylor.Wonder what he is doing this shitty Saturday?His night had to be better than mine. I stared at my phone, scrolling through my contacts. There was no Brock Taylor in my phone. Nothing for Elite, either.
Thank God for small wonders.
The last thing I needed was to drunk text or call Brock.
That would end badly.
Like with me in his bed.You are not booty calling Brock, I lectured myself sternly.
But my drunk self really liked the idea of Brock in a bed. Would it be as mind-blowing as it had been the first time? Would his hands feel just like I remembered? Far too often my dreams were filled with the dark-haired god. Okay, god might have been an extreme description, but it wasn’t that far off.
Sex with Brock had been damn near heavenly.
And in my current mood, I was capable of anything, which was exactly why I shoved my phone into my pocket and tipped the bottle back.
I closed my eyes for just a moment, a clear picture in my head of his face that night at the wedding. Those keen eyes, irresistible lips, and the way he looked at me as if I was someone special. Important. Worthwhile. Like he really saw me.
Firefly.
I could hear his voice in my head, rolling over the nickname like it was both a curse and prayer.
Yellow dots danced in the distance. Not fireflies. A pair of headlights shone down the street, approaching. I stared at the star pattern that hit the blacktop, memorized by the twinkling lights. They grew nearer, the car speeding down the road, hugging the curves. I lifted the bottle to my lips and tilted my head back, thinking it was probably time for me to make my way back to the Pattersons’ mansion. My foot scuffled over the ground, catching the front of my shoe, and I tripped, bobbling the bottle in my hand. In an attempt to keep the bourbon in my grasp like a precious piece of glass, I stepped forward to regain my composure, and my foot landed in a pothole.
I went down.