Page 11 of Kayden: The Past
“Hell no. I want to watch the show.” What can I say? I must love torture. I lived in my sadness and wallowed in my self-pity. “I want a fucking drink.”
We headed to the bar, and I ordered a pitcher of beer for myself. Yes, for myself—I wasn’t sharing. I washed down the beer with shots of tequila, trying to drown the hurt I felt with her in my sights. She worked the room, draping herself over various men like she knew them in a more intimate way. I never would have believed that she would even step foot in a bar like this, let alone look like a regular. I didn’t know Bridget as well as I thought I had. I’d been duped.
Halfway through my pitcher and four shots of tequila later, I felt Bridget spot me. Instead of walking away or leaving like a cheating bitch should, she headed in my direction with a look of hurt. What the fuck did she have to be hurt about?
She stood in front of me, yet I couldn’t say a word. There were so many things running through my brain. I had so much to say to this whore in front of me, but none of it would come.
“Kayden.” She sounded like she’d just seen me the other day and was saying hello like we were friends. “How are you?” I saw red; pissed couldn’t even explain what I felt in that moment.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. How am I?How am I?That’s all you have to say, you vile bitch?” Eyes started to look in our direction, but I ignored everyone, keeping my eyes pinned on her, not worthy of even saying her name.
“I’m sorry. I fucked up,” she said, staring at the ground.
“You fucked something, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. Get the fuck out of my space.”
She grabbed my arm, and my flesh instantly felt the coldness of her hands, just like her heart. “Get your fucking hand off me.” I stared at her hand, not wanting to look her in the eye. I could barely think straight because my insides were raging.
“You can be such a prick.”
I glared at her, unable to believe the words coming out of her mouth. I could see someone standing next to her out of the corner of my eye, and I turned my attention toward him. He was staring at Bridget with a look of concern.
“Bridge, are you okay? Want me to get rid of this asshole?” the cocksucker asked her. Somehow, I became the piece of shit in this situation. How in the fuck did that happen? I wasn’t the one spreading my legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry like the lovely Bridge standing before me.
“Yes, poor little Bridge, are you okay?” I stared at her, wanting to hit something or someone.
“What’s going on over here, Bridge?” another male voice asked.
What in the fuck? Was she on a first-name basis with every asshole in this shit hole? “Yeah, I’m fine. Just give me a moment, guys.” They stared at me for a second before walking away.
“Doing more than one at a time now?”
“Fuck you, Kayden. You’re the one who destroyed us.”
I was dumbfounded. “I don’t remember shoving my cock into any hole that would grant me access.”
“You’re drunk. You fucker! Your drinking was more important than me. Look at you now, shit-faced drunk.”
“Nothing was more important than you. You’re delusional to put the blame on anyone but yourself. You’re a whore, and I never knew it.” I clenched my fists, becoming more and more pissed off with each moment.
Her hand connected with my face and my neck snapped to the side. I licked my lips, tasting iron from the blood that was trickling out of a small cut the slap had caused. I would never, no matter what, ever hit a woman. If anyone in the world ever deserved it, she did. I grabbed the remaining pitcher of beer at my side and dumped it over her head. She began to scream. “I can’t believe you. You’re a motherfucking dick.” The beer was dripping off the tips of her hair, and her tank top was drenched.
“What the fuck?” echoed from across the bar, and I knew the two guys who were all up in my shit earlier were about to be in my face. A hand wrapped around Bridget’s waist and moved her out of my sight.
“Come on, fucker,” I said, ready for a fight. I needed to beat the shit out of someone, and who better than a guy she’d probably already fucked in my absence. His fist connected with my face. I wanted the pain, so I didn’t even try to duck. He moved to hit me again, but I ducked and slid off the barstool.
My fists flew in rapid succession, smashing the guy in the face and ribs. He landed a few more punches before I knocked his ass out. He lay on the floor at my feet before I was able to look around. The entire bar had erupted into a fight. People were punching each other all over the room, and the girls were ducking under tables and heading for the doors.
I knew my body would be sore, and I’d feel every simple movement tomorrow. Every stab of pain would be worth pouring that pitcher of beer over her head. How dare that whore blame me for literally fucking up our happy ending. She was the one with her legs spread—not me.
My life was like an inescapable black hole. I worked hard and played harder, needing to lose myself in booze, women, and drugs. I wanted to dull the pain, escape reality, and just forget everything. The problem with my method is that it’s only a momentary Band-Aid for the scar that stays with you a lifetime or eventually bites you in the ass.
