I just couldn’t bring myself to get back on the bike and ride. If I did, I knew exactly where it would take me, right back to the life I was living before. I told myself I should sell the goddamn thing, but I knew I wouldn't.
So many memories of me and April involved that pile of metal and chrome.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead and headed out of the garage and straight for the refrigerator, grabbing a longneck, the sweat beading down the sides of the bottle no sooner than I pulled it out. I popped the top and drank, too aware of how ridiculous it was to be drinking beer right after the kind of weightlifting session I'd just done for the past two hours, the heavy kind, old school shit with barbells. A prison workout.
The shit I'd hoped would let me clear my head.
It wasn't working like I'd hoped.
A beer chaser was probably the wrong fucking idea.
At this point, though, I was willing to try anything. The house was too quiet without MacKenzie here, and hearing her ask me on the phone if I was okay...hell, it had thrown me into a tailspin. A kid her age shouldn't have to worry like that, about whether her father was going to be okay. It wasn't right. A kid her age should be carefree, full of light and laughter.
Of course, a kid her age shouldn't have lost her mom the way she did, either.
I'd never forgive myself for that. And no amount of working out, no amount of beer, no amount of overtime at work would ever distract me from the fact that April's death was all my fault. And what MacKenzie went through with me, watching me sink into my own pit of despair-it wasn't right.
On the phone with her earlier today, she was happy. April's mother, Marie, said she was having the time of her life, going to the beach every day, swimming with her cousins.
Maybe I was just a dead weight that was holding her down out here in Las Vegas.
Maybe she would be better off without me around permanently. It was a nagging thought, one that kept replaying in my mind over and over.
Later, I laid awake in bed, my thoughts churning. You could hear a pin drop in the house, and the darkness felt suffocating, threatening to envelop me and eat me alive. The nights were always the worst; they had been since April died. It was the time I hated the most, lying awake, my mind filled with thoughts that shouldn’t be there, dangerous thoughts that weren’t good for me.
Those times, I had to picture April telling me why I was still alive. It was just getting harder and harder to think of the reasons anymore.
I painted myself up, made myself presentable in the way that I knew Aston would like. I would see him again tonight, the second time in a week. It was a special kind of torture.
When I walked into the penthouse suite, I had no idea what waited for me on the other side. Aston was too unpredictable to know anymore. He had summoned me, like he always did. But his emotions were erratic, and the thought was always in the back of my head that he might be calling me to my death. If it weren't for Ben, I wouldn't care. The thought of death would be something to be invited, not feared.
Inside, he offered me a drink. "What are you drinking, doll?"
Doll. He was in a good mood. Probably chemically induced.
He handed me a glass without waiting for my answer, and smiled, seemingly pleased with me. That was unsettling. Then his hand was at the small of my back. "Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?" I asked.
"You're my date for the evening," he said.
I felt a chill run up the length of my body. Aston and I did not date. Whatever he had in mind, it wouldn't be pleasant. I swallowed a gulp of the liquor he had handed me, grateful for it, hoping it would numb me to whatever was about to happen. "Can I ask where we are going?"
"You can," he said, "but it's a surprise." He looked at me, his eyes glazed, and I forced a smile, swallowing the rest of the liquid, searing as it made its way down my throat.
Behind me, he traced his finger down the middle of my back, across the open expanse of my skin. I shuddered at his touch, which only seemed to encourage him. He reached for my glass, took it from my hand and set it on a table.
Then his breath was on the nape of my neck, causing the tendrils of hair to brush against the bottom of my neck and sending a shiver up my spine. "I allowed you to talk to your son," he said.
"Yes." I feared what he might be about to say.
"Do you see how I reward you when you behave?" he asked. I was confused for a moment, not sure whether he was saying that my reward was talking to my son, or what he was about to do now. Because being with him was certainly not a reward.
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I said, "Yes. I am grateful for your kindness."
He lifted the hem of my skirt, reached between my legs without waiting for me to spread them. "Don't mistake my kindness for weakness."