Page 95 of The Anchor Holds

I made the vow as if it was in my power to make. Even as the words came from my mouth, I knew they were a lie.

As much as I wanted to give Calliope a good life, a great one, she was the one who would decide whether she was worthy of that. And though I knew she was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I knew she didn’t believe that.

Eighteen

Nothing New (feat. Phoebe Bridgers) — Taylor Swift

CALLIOPE

Iwas drunk.

That was why someone was knocking at the door of my hotel room.

Because I made bad decisions when I was drunk.

Like calling Jasper to come to Jupiter those months ago, thinking he was still welcome in my bed, letting him know exactly where I was, where my family was. Yes, he could’ve known before I called, could’ve found out with a few taps of a keyboard or one phone call. But willingly letting him set foot in Jupiter felt like a sin.

And I’d already sinned enough when it came to Jasper Hayes.

But it wasn’t him I was bringing into my bad decisions.

“Hi.” I gripped the door, taking in Elliot. He was in another sweater, a cream one this time, cargo pants, and his belovedBirkenstocks. His eyes ran over me much the same way I had him.

My hair was down, my signature bun hurting my head unlike it ever had before. I’d kicked off my heels and the blouse I’d been wearing, so I was in a silk camisole and a skirt which was unzipped partially since it felt uncomfortable against my midsection. All of my custom-made clothing suddenly felt suffocating.

Likely, I didn’t look great.

But Elliot drank me in like I was a Victoria’s Secret model.

He clutched the back of my neck, tugging me in for a quick, hard, close-mouthed kiss.

I sank into his embrace without thinking, all the reasons I had solidified into my mind for staying away from Elliot were gone in a puff of smoke. To be fair, they had been nothing but dust by the fourth martini.

After four martinis, I was nothing but a hedonistic beast, driven by selfish needs without thought to the consequences.

Hence why I was pressed against a hard body that smelled of the ocean.

And because I was four martinis deep and horny and I wanted to escape anything beyond sex, I tried to deepen the kiss.

Elliot didn’t let me.

He gripped my shoulders, pulling me back to rake his eyes over me.

“I haven’t been shot again.” I was being smarmy, not slurring my words because I wasn’t a lightweight. I could’ve put together a board proposal for a Fortune 500 right then if I’d needed to. I had in the past.

“You’re drunk,” Elliot deduced, as though I didn’t betray the outward signs beyond a disheveled appearance. I could’ve tasted like vodka too, I supposed. But it wasn’t uncommon for me to taste like vodka.

Okay, so there were a lot of signs pointing to the conclusion that I was drunk. It wouldn’t take more than a curious glance to pick up on that. And Elliot looked at me with a fuck of a lot more than a curious glance.

“Yeah,” I admitted, not seeing the point in lying. “Well, not technically. I don’t get drunk. I have an excellent constitution.” My point was weakened by the large hiccup I punctuated the sentence with.

I frowned at such a pedestrian gesture. It normally took at least four more martinis to get me to that level. I tried to remember the last time I ate. Even on my meager diet, I usually lined my stomach with some kind of protein before drinking more than two martinis.

Elliot didn’t argue with me, which was wise. Instead, he closed the door and led us into the suite.

Even though it was just me, I’d checked into the nicest room in the hotel. Because I was a snobby bitch, used to buying the best, thinking that all the opulence I surrounded myself with would make the ends justify the means.

Spoiler alert: Being alone in a penthouse was just as lonely as being in a room at a Motel 6, if not more.

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