Page 26 of Over You
“Hey. Guys. . .” Nash coughed. “You’re kinda killing my buzz.”
I glared at Nash and thumbed toward Leo. “I’m not playing with a self-righteous prick.”
Nash shrugged before going back to what was most likely porn on his phone.
“No wonder she left you,” Leo mumbled.
That pressed a button labelednuclear war. I launched across the limo and grabbed Leo by the throat. “Don’t you ever—”
I tumbled to the floor when Nash pulled me off.
Leo shook his head, rubbing at his throat. “I’m done with this.”
I was losing it, and I knew it. The limo rolled to a stop at a traffic light. I grabbed the bag of coke, shoved it in my pocket, and threw open the door.
“Hey. Dude—” Whatever Nash said next was cut off by the door slamming shut.
Seething, I headed toward a row of buildings. The light turned green, but the limo didn’t move. One of the windows lowered, and Nash’s head popped out.
“Hey.” He called from the window. “Come on, man. We’ve got a show.”
I faced the idling limo and walked backward over the cobblestone road. I tossed my hands in the air. “Don’t fucking care.”
I heard Leo tell the driver to leave me before I turned around and headed down a one-way street. The sidewalks were vacant with the exception of a stray dog hunting through an overturned garbage can.
I had no idea where I was or what I was going to do. I’d left everything in the limo, and my pride refused to allow me to call either of the guy’s and have them come back. All the shops were closed, and only a few of the Tudor-style houses had lights on. Nearly every building had greenery overflowing in flower boxes. There was a baker, a butcher. . .holy shit. . .and a candlestick maker. The place looked like the goddamn Magic Kingdom. I expected a plump Fairy Godmother tobippity, boppity, booher ass out at any second.
And if I believed in miracles, I’d almost say she did because when I looked to my right, there was a sign tacked above a doorway that read: Salisbury Roast Company.
“You’ve gotta be kidding. . .” I fished my phone from my pocket, pulled up the map, and added in Georgia’s address. The little blue blip popped up on the screen. One point three miles away.
I’d moped around for the past year. I’d had days where I wanted to die, days where I hated myself. I’d passed up more girls than I could count because I wanted nothing more than to still belong to her. The woman I was in love with wanted all ties between us broken, and part of me couldn’t blame her. The paparazzi shots of me staggering out of nightclubs, the headlines that I’d pissed off the balcony of a swanky, NYC hotel—those things didn’t look good.
But Ihadtried, and that was something the media didn’t show. I had stayed clean for short stints. Once, I had stayed clean for a month, then I’d had my wisdom teeth cut out. They doped me up with some sedative that brought the addiction monster roaring back to life. Was it good enough? Hell no. But since she had just up and left, she neversawthe fight I gave for us.
The longer I walked and thought about it, the more the anger bubbled in my chest. By the time I was a quarter mile from her house, my chest was puffed out, and my fist clenched at my side. Love meant standing with someone, roaring demons and all.
I followed one cobblestone street to the next, nearly getting plowed over by a Volvo when I crossed a roundabout. Nash called, but I sent him to voicemail.
The closer I came to the blinking dot on my phone, the tighter my chest grew. By the time my gaze locked on 383 Saint James Street, my palms were slick, and my shirt clung to my damp back.
Three concrete steps led to a landing.
My gut had tied itself in knots from a combination of excitement and worry. What if I knocked on that door and a guy answered? My fingers pulled into a fist at the thought. What if she slammed the door in my face? What if she gave me one last chance?
My knuckles rapped on the door, and I took a step back, hoping to God she wouldn’t notice my jaw twitching from all that coke I’d snorted earlier.
12
Georgia Anne
Six o’clock turned into seven, then eight. By ten, a total of three people sat at the bar—one of those being Fergus. To stave off boredom, I decided to take inventory in the stock room. Ten boxes of vodka down, Tom popped around the doorframe with a frown. “Kirby’s outside, threatening to slash my tires. Can you watch the front while I handle her?”
“Sure.” Dusting off my hands, I pushed to my feet and made my way to the bar.
Fergus ambled through the door, shaking his head. “Give me a cider, would you, love? I had enough moaning from my first three wives. I can’t handle listening to Tom’s nutter.” He gave a curt nod. “That one’s as mad as a bag of ferrets.”
“Some men like a bit of crazy,” I said, filling a pint glass.
