Page 108 of Guilty Minds
"Look at you, man. What the fuck happened to you?" He asks me reproachfully. I wish I could care, but I don't.
I spread my arms, accidentally splashing some Jack on the couch where we spent so many hot nights—and days—both of us learning so many new things. Turns out, Kayla is adventurous; the second I found out, I knew I had hit the jackpot. Now I'm just sad that those days are gone. "Kayla happened. That witch."
"You leave women left and right, and they don't mope like this." He rolls his eyes. "Did you lose your dick somewhere along the way?"
I point an accusing finger at him. "None of them were Kayla," I say her name with care, even when I'm pissed at her. "And might as well have." I shrug at the second part. Even porn doesn't do it for me these days. How pathetic I've become.
"Are you gonna wallow in your sorrows for the rest of your life?" He stands in front of me, arms crossed over his chest.
"Are you gonna tell me where she is?" I counter.
He sighs and sits next to me. "I know she's in Boston, and she's doing good. That's all I know."
A sliver of hope sparks in my chest. “Do you know why she left?”
"Nah." He shakes his head, and I stare at him, trying to figure out if he's lying. "I swear I don't know. I don't think Freya knows either, or she'd cave the second she saw you like this, looking like a miserable piece of year-old shit. My guess is Kayla doesn't want us to beat the shit out of you, so she's not telling us."
My hope dies in an instant. Marina would never tell me how I can find her, and no one else knows.
Suddenly, Alex smacks me hard on the back and says, "Take this one last day to lick your wounds, and tomorrow be a better man for when she returns."
“Will she?”
“I’m sure she will.” He smacks me again, gets up, and leaves.
Do I want her to return? Fuck, I do. I'm still pissed at her. Fuckin' furious, but I've missed her. And I want her to tell me why she left. What the fuck could I have done so wrong for her to just disappear one day without even a simple goodbye?
I decide to follow Alex’s advice and get my shit together. But today… today I’m getting piss drunk.
ChapterThirty-One
Mark, the guy who happens to be at the right place this time around
I walk into Cat and Stallion, hoping to get a drink and get lost in the sounds of the crowd after a difficult shift. We couldn’t save someone. Those calls always take a toll on me. I relive those moments many times over, thinking about what we could have done differently, hoping the outcome could be changed. But I’ll meet with those thoughts later, at my house, when I'm alone with no barrier between us.
Rory, a pretty bartender, shoots me a flirty smile that I don't have the mental capacity to return. She reads my mood and brings me my usual drink without a word.
"I made you a double. It's on the house." She pats my hand, plastered on the counter, and walks away. Bartenders. They’re a special breed. Better help than a therapist and better at reading people than damn tarot cards.
I nod gratefully and chug half of it. Just as I'm about to feel that warm fuzzy feeling in my stomach, a loud laugh comes through the door. A very fake and a very familiar laugh.
Justin fucking Attleborough. God, I hate this guy. And after Kayla, that pure soul… I squeeze my glass, nearly breaking it.
"Oh, look who's here." He walks over to me. Of course. Today of all days, he wants to fight. I chug the rest of my drink and smack the glass on the table. On the other hand, a fight is just what I might need right now.
"Got a problem, golden boy?" I ask. I know he hates that.
His eyes turn violent.
“Possibly.” He leans his elbow on the counter next to mine. He smells like a rotten vineyard, and my desire to fight evaporates. I don't pick fights with drunk people. I don't want to end up in jail for accidentally killing someone. A good, nice brawl with a decent opponent, on the other hand—sign me up. We've had quite a few of those throughout our lifetime. I always felt better after each one, if I'm completely honest. All the anger and hurt leaves your body after you get that first punch in. It doesn't matter whether you're the one to deliver it or receive it—it’s just a different sort of pleasure.
“Go home, Justin. Sleep it off.”
“Can’t do.” He spreads his arms wide. “Haven’t done that in a while.”
“What? Going home?” My chuckle is sarcastic. The dude is in desperate need of a shower.
"Sleeping." Then he looks around, looking almost uncomfortable. Like he over-shared. I take pity on him, even if he doesn’t deserve it.
