Page 59 of Heartless Boss
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Loud banging and glass shattering make me jerk out of my sleep. I slip out of bed and head down the hallway, following the sound. I climb a set of stairs to the third floor. It takes me a few minutes to find the noise because Wolf’s mansion is so big. We spend Fridays and Saturdays here. On Sundays he drops me off at the condo in New York City, and I usually spend it by myself, listening to music or taking a stroll at a park, snapping pictures of the diverse New York City landscape.
When I make it to the third floor, I follow the noise to a room down the hall. I slowly twist the metal knob and push the door open.
Gunner smashes different mirrors and vases with a metal bat. His eyes are red-rimmed and droopy. He looks like he’s been through hell and back. He sets the bat down on the wooden floor and grabs a bottle of whiskey, downing it like he’s dying of thirst. Figures. Gunner has been drinking every single day since the night I told him about Ryan. Right before he goes to work, he drinks his whiskey and moves through the day like everything is okay.
Coworkers, shareholders, and other people don’t know he’s in his office drinking. And when we go on dates, no one suspects anything. He’s living a double life as a functioning alcoholic. Even though he hides behind his booze, I can tell when he’s drunk and when he’s sober. Right now, he’s drunker than Billy Bob Thornton inBad Santa.
I see right through you, Gunner Joshua Underwood. You’re dying on the inside, like wilting flowers.
I want to yell at him, but I don’t want to kick him while he’s down. And right now, he looks like he’s in so much pain I can feel it radiating through my bones.
Once he drains the remainder of the amber liquor, he tosses it against the wall, bangs his hand on his head, and tears trickle down his cheeks.
The tears begin to run down my cheeks because I don’t like to see him so broken. I place my hand over my mouth, and Wolf looks up at me as if he knew I was in the room. His eyes widen and he mumbles, “Fuck,” under his breath as he rubs the back of his neck.
I slide into the pair of black loafers I see sitting near the door; they are a few sizes bigger than my small feet. I shuffle my feet trying to take long strides toward him. I drink in the sight of the broken glasses. What kind of room is this?
“It’s my relief room,” he answers my thoughts. “I come here to break shit when I want to let off steam. My psychiatrist is the one who suggested it.”
Once I stop in front of him, I tilt my chin up, wiping his tears with the pad of my thumb. He flinches at first before he finally accepts my touch. It’s my turn to touch his soul like he did mine. We stare into each other’s eyes for several seconds, but it feels like an eternity. The world stops on its axis, and we’re frozen in time.
His eyes are those of a man who’s torn and destroyed. I can also see rage swimming in the depths of them. “Go back to bed. You don’t need to see me like this.”
His words sting. I don’t want him to shut me out. He needs to open up and tell me what’s wrong. Slowly, he grabs my elbow, ushers me toward the doorway, gently pushes me out into the hall, and shuts the door in my face.
Him shutting me out hurts as much as him slicing my heart into a million pieces. I need him to know that he isn’t alone, and whatever he’s going through we can face together. I go to the kitchen, grab his glass plates and bowls and head back upstairs, waltzing inside the room.
When I throw plates at the wall, Gunner stops swinging and rests the base of the bat on his shoulder, staring me up and down like I’m crazy. “What the fuck did I say? Rainbow. Go. To. Bed.”
“No,” I say, tossing another plate against the wall. “You’re not alone in this, Wolf, and whatever you’re going through you don’t have to face by yourself. You don’t have to tell me the details, but I want you to know that I’m here.”
“I have PTSD,” he says, like it’s acid burning his tongue. “I can’t look at blood or smell it or watch certain shows, it’s a goddamn trigger. I’ll start having flashbacks. I feel like I’m living in a box.”
I swallow hard. My broken wolf saves everyone else but doesn’t know how to save himself. I want to ask him what happened. But he’ll tell me when he’s ready. “Okay, we’ll deal with it.”
Surprise flickers across his face, and he opens his mouth, then closes it, then stares at me like I’ve grown three heads.
I want Gunner to know it doesn’t bother me he comes with baggage or that he’s broken. Last time I checked crayons break but they still color.
He walks up to me, tilting my chin to look at him. “You want me like this?”
“I’ll accept the good and bad about you, even the version that drinks like a sailor.” I exhale. “Do you have another bat?”
He assesses me for a long time, then he answers, “Yeah.” He goes to the closet and hands me a black one. After we smash all the mirrors and plates, Gunner wobbles over to me, drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we head to his bedroom.
The second we get into bed, Gunner yanks my shirt over my head, and I pull off his shirt while we kiss. Before I know it, he has my hands pinned above my head and is thrusting into me so hard I feel it in my stomach. This sex is different than any other time—it’s intense and filled with despair and loneliness. I don’t care if he uses me tonight. If he wants my soul, he can have it. When he kisses down my throat, I feel his hot ropes of cum spurt inside me, and after the last stroke, I come all over his erection.
“I need you to tell me how much your heart weeps, so I can make it stop,” I say as he rolls off me. I slide myself on top of his semi-hard erection and kiss his drunken lips.
“There are some things you can’t help me with, Rainbow.” His words sting, but he’s right. I want to crawl into the hole in his heart and sleep there.
When he comes inside me again, I collapse on his chest and fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty
Gunner
