Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Don’t do it,” he says as I pass him and enter my office. “Don’t do it, Jesse.”
“Why?” Sarah asks. “He looks like he needs to relax.”
“Shut the fuck up,” John barks, but I’m too focused to appreciate how angry he must be to talk to Sarah like that. He never talks to Sarah like that, no matter how much of a bitch she can be.
I head to the drinks cabinet and brace my hands on the edge, my breathing labored, my eyes scanning the bottles. “Leave me,” I order, feeling John’s presence still behind me. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”
The door closes, and I continue to stare at the bottles, every shitty thing that’s happened in my life running circles in my head, cruelly reminding me of my innumerable shortcomings. Of my stupidity. Of what I’ve lost and what I can never have. Ava. She’s at the top of the list, but then there is also purpose, hope, peace . . . freedom.
Forgiveness.
None of those things will ever be mine.
My nostrils flare, and I swipe up a bottle, taking it to my desk and dropping to my chair, placing it in front of me. I can smell it. I can smell the relief, the numbness, the emptiness. I slam my palm into my temple, clenching my eyes closed. I see Jake. I see Lauren. I see Rosie. I see Carmichael. I see the knife, the alcohol, hear the hateful words.
The horror movie that is my life plays before my eyes, every unbearable detail, every awful moment.
And at the end, before the curtain falls, Ava’s face.
The end.
I grab the bottle, unscrew the cap, and take it to my lips, swigging back the respite within my reach. I gasp, wincing, the burn fierce. More. I take it back to my mouth, glugging the vodka, determined to get lost in the bottle.
How old are you?
More vodka.
I’m never letting you go.
I don’t want you to.
More vodka.
I’m going to get lost in you.
More vodka.
Once I’ve had you, you’re mine.
More. Fucking. Vodka.
The seconds blur into minutes, and the minutes into hours. Every moment painful. I work my way through the entire bottle, getting angrier with every recollection taunting me.
Every moment when I was offered wasted hope.
* * *
Fuck knows how long later, I glance out of the window, seeing the sun going down. I reach up with a wobbly hand to unfasten the top button of my shirt as I get up and go to the cabinet. There’s a knock at the door. “Go away,” I mumble.
More vodka.
I’m ignored, and the door opens. Sarah walks in, her eyes falling to the bottle in my hand. “Want some help unwinding?”
“No, I want to be alone,” I snap, not that my drunken slur penetrates her thick skin.
She says no more and closes the door behind her, and I stagger to the couch, flopping down, the soft cushion feeling like iron against my pounding head. It’s not pounding with the effects of alcohol. It’s still fucking pounding with visions, memories, and fucking feelings. How much do I need to drink to make this all go away? Will it ever go away? Will I ever return to the welcome place of nothingness?
More vodka.
Restless, I get up and start pacing my office, my legs unstable, my big body swaying. Why the fuck am I still hurting?
More vodka.
Knock, knock.
“I said—” I look at my office door when it opens.
And stare at Freja Van Der Haus on the threshold.
She pulls the tie of her overcoat. Shrugs it off. My eyes drop down her bare body.
“Shut the door,” I order harshly, placing my bottle on the cabinet as she obeys. I scrub my hands down my rough cheeks, wrestling away the fact that she looks nothing like Ava. At least twenty years older. More meat on her bones. Blonde hair. Too much makeup. She couldn’t be any more different. “Come here.”
She wanders slowly over, and even through my drunken eyes, I see her body lighting up. She stops in front of me.
Forget.
Eliminate her.
Do whatever it takes to free myself of this nightmare. And, more importantly, free Ava of me. And the daze of the alcohol kicks in—yes, this is familiar. A willing woman. No fight. This. Is. How. I. Fuck. It doesn’t matter which pussy. Just a willing fuck. “Turn around,” I say, my voice groggy. She slowly turns, looking over her shoulder coyly. She wants foreplay. A build-up. An extended session to blow her mind.
I haven’t the inclination to please her, just the desperate need to escape. I grab a condom and clasp her neck with one hand, walking her across my office to the sofa, applying pressure, encouraging her to bend over as I unfasten my belt and yank my trousers open. My limp dick falls into my hand. I stroke it, willing it to life, begging it to harden, the strain and effort almost too much. I slip the condom on with some effort, and with my hand on her back, I guide myself to her wet, begging pussy and push my way inside her with no warning or consideration. She’s ready. Always ready.