Page 8 of One More Night

My smile slips at the reminder.The crash… the tabloids… the blame…I stare at the three-pronged, yellow remote until my vision blurs out of focus.

“Hey.” Penelope places a hand over mine. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good, because there’s nothing left to discuss.” I hate the hard edge in my voice, but there’s no hiding it. The whole fiasco is still so raw. “What’s done is done.”

She plucks the remote from my hand. “Why don’t you get unpacked, and when you’re finished, I’ll destroy you inDiddy Kong Racing.”

The corner of my mouth twitches as that lick of anger settles. “You’re on.”

I return to the entry and drag my shit to the master bedroom.

A low, rumblingwoofcomes from the rug at the foot of the bed when I open the door.

“Jango. You’re still alive, buddy?”

Patrick’s fawn-colored mastiff chuffs from where he lies on the floor, but his tail starts whapping the minute I’m within petting range.

A groan rumbles from the mutt’s barrel chest as he flops onto his back, hamming it up the same way he always has while begging for a scratch.

Mid belly rub, that rumble travels under my palm, lower until I hear a near-silentpfft.

His tail goes limp and those wide eyes flick to mine as if he’s hoping I didn’t notice.

“Jesus Christ,” I grunt. “You’ll be sleeping in the barn if you keep that up.”

Jango howls softly, adding another round of tail wagging as I step into the bathroom and flip the lights on. I strip down inside the stark white room, and instead of dipping into the garden tub, I opt for the wood-tiled luxury shower.

The rain feature hums to life, sprinkling a steady stream across my head, neck, and shoulders. My eyes drift shut as I listen to the trickling sound of water sliding down the drain.

‘Marcus! Marcus! Can you give us details of the crash? Was anyone hurt?’

Even though my eyes are closed, I bat an invisible recorder out of my face.

“Fuck off,” I whisper.

‘Rehab again. Does this mean your career is over?’

‘Marcus!’

I pound my fist against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times, before I finally open my eyes.

Resting my forehead on my arm, I ride the wave of nausea making my stomach roil until I’m able to take several calming breaths. Once I’m sure I won’t vomit, I wash up and quickly shut the water off.

Droplets fall from the tips of my hair, and I brace my palms against the wall, watching each one plop between my feet.

I’m thankful to my uncle for letting me tend to the ranch while he prepares to leave for London, and beyond thankful to Pen for helping me out. But this isolation, the ache of being alone and cut off from the world, is almost worse than if I’d stayed.

Once I’m dressed, I rummage through the bag containing my woodworking tools. A buddy of mine taught me the trade, and I’ve been obsessed ever since, creating and selling pieces any chance I get.

I could drown myself in the welcoming heat of any woman or drink and use until oblivion welcomes me, but working with my hands is the only thing that truly gives me solace.

Carefully, I remove the cloth-wrapped gift I made for my uncle last Christmas, tracing the intricate curves and swirls of three wild horses running through a pasture of tall grass before placing it on top of his dresser.

My ass hits the bed after I swipe my wallet from my discarded pants, and I unfold the picture stuffed inside it. Studying the young faces staring back at me, I wonder what’s the use of torturing myself. Nothing’s going to change, so why do I bother continuously agonizing over it?

I drop the picture into a hidden drawer, and then make my way through the kitchen to the fridge. The tab of a Miller Lite cracks loudly, and I guzzle it down in three large gulps before reaching for another.

Soft footfalls travel across the tile to where I’m leaning over the sink.

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