Page 3 of The One
“The date, Ridge.” My head shook. “What’s the fucking date?”
As his hand rubbed back and forth across the edge of my arm, the recognition finally showed in his expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
He knew I was sure.
I didn’t talk about this. I wouldn’t even let the thoughts leave my mouth after a fifth of whiskey. Fifteen years to the day was the last time I’d discussed it, and I’d never spoken about it again.
I preferred to keep those thoughts inside—buried.
But they weren’t six feet under.
They were in my soul.
And they were so powerful that they rumbled and surged and tried to break through the surface.
But I was stronger. Because I knew once they hit my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to stop them from coming out. And then I’d have to talk … and I couldn’t.
I exhaled. “Yeah, I’m fucking sure.” I stood. “I need another drink.”
“Are you going to take off after you get one?”
“If I do, don’t come looking for me.”
I disappeared toward the bar without looking back, without even saying anything to my sister or anyone we’d come here with, and I set my fisted hands on top of the wooden ledge. I’d already drained two whiskeys since we’d arrived. I wasn’t even close to stopping.
But there were only two bartenders and a slew of bastards in line around me, waiting for drinks.
Fuck that.
A full bottle of liquor and a hotboxed bed sounded better than anything I could get here.
As I went outside, I reached into my pocket for the fob of my R8, groaning, “Shit,” when I came up empty-handed.
I hadn’t fucking driven here. We’d taken a goddamn party bus.
It only took a few taps on my phone before I had a rideshare coming to get me.
My feet moved while I waited, pacing the walkway between the club and the parking lot. The small white gravel rocks crunched under my shoes with each step.
I never let my siblings persuade me. I didn’t know why I’d allowed them to tonight.
Coming here was the worst fucking idea.
This week, every year, followed an almost-identical routine.
My housekeeper would make sure my bar was well stocked, I’d hit up the dispensary and buy as much weed as they allowed, I’d shut off my phone, and I wouldn’t go to work, nor would I even enter my home office.
Then what I’d do—the only thing I’d do—was turn off the lights.
Sometime later, around seven days, my family would show up. That was the span they’d give me to drink and smoke myself into fucking oblivion. When it came time to come in, they wouldn’t mess with the doorbell—they knew I wouldn’t answer it. They’d just use their key and walk in.
Dad usually showed up first.
He was the one who’d flip my lights back on.
