She stomped to the kitchen, slamming her heels four times on the wood floor to drown out her gasping breaths. That man had been intrusive, rude, dangerous...sexy as fuck. His departure was a blessing. She grabbed a beer from the fridge. The first sip burned the cuts his teeth had left on her lips.
Oh God, that kiss. Her taste buds tingled, not from the hops but from the remembered pleasure of his skillful tongue, the bite of tequila on his breath, and the spicy flavor that seemed to be inherently him. A taste she would never experience again.
Good riddance. She tipped back the bitter ale, hellbent on creating a new night through alcoholic osmosis. In a few days, she would be contemplating her life while sitting in the dark without water or electricity. Because she wouldn't be going to the mailbox. Not tonight. Not ever again.
Might as well drink the beer while it was still cold. She dropped the empty bottle in the trash and grabbed another. “Fucking sucks.” She sucked. Shallow bastards with silver eyes sucked. She slumped onto the kitchen stool, hung her head over the counter, and cursed her sucky self and the sucky bastard who had just ran far, far away.
A six-pack later, she'd vacuumed out the footprints in the bedroom carpet, packaged up the sheaths, printed the postage labels, and barfed as much of the caloric beer as her stomach was willing to release. Then she spent the next hour engaged in a standoff with the front door.
“This is all your fault.” She struck the wood panel, and her palm landed like a sloppy slap. “If you weren't in my way, I'd be out there right now shipping my shit.”
It was a lie, but the door didn't know that. It just stood there like an unfeeling asshole.
“Ever heard of a sledgehammer?” she yelled then burped and laughed hysterically. “That's right, motherfucker. All I have to do is smash your hinges, and you won't even be able to stand.” Momentarily distracted by the jumping sensation of her hiccup, she touched her chest and swayed not-so beauty-pageant–hic—ably in her heels.
Now what was she doing? Oh right. She lunged for the door, determined to open it, just drunk enough to not give a damn. She wobbled as her hand touched the knob and jumped back, dizzy and confused.
“You're nothing. You hear me?” She thrust out a finger at the deadbolt to punctuate her point.
What was her point again? Jesus, her brain felt heavy as she watched the slow, mesmerizing movements of her arms. She tossed them in the air and stumbled. Whoa, the floor was rocking. Earthquake in Texas? Nah, it was just a blowout of pent-up funk along her psychotic fault lines and stuff. She laughed, bent-over, snorting, though she couldn't recall what was so damned funny.
Probably a good time to call it a night. With a middle finger aimed at the door, she grabbed the bottle of tequila from the kitchen and climbed into bed. Tequila made the tongue taste delicious, especially when it belonged to sinful lips and sharp teeth. She unscrewed the lid and drank. And drank. Until she couldn't remember why she didn't do this every night.
The next morning, she woke with a second heartbeat pulsating behind her eyes and the hot burn of tequila-laced vapors in her throat. At some point during the night, her mouth had forgotten how to produce saliva, and her tongue had withered into a suffocating gag of sandpaper.
Then she remembered the prick who had the nerve to be offended by her proposal. And the fact that she deserved it. Death sounded like a great plan for the day. His. Hers. Definitely his.
She tried to raise her head, and a starburst of pain stole her vision. Not happening. She rolled to her side and her cheek landed in a puddle of drool on the pillow. Not just slobber but the vomit-scented variety that sent her stomach contracting to the tune of curl up and die.
What a miserable thing she'd become. A victim of her own destruction. But self-indulgent pity did little more than exaggerate excuses. True comfort came from order and routine. She glanced at the clock.
Oh, no, no, no. She was late. The pounding in her head exploded, and her hands started shaking. Hangover be damned, she needed to get her ass up.
She pushed with weak arms to a sitting position and waited for the queasiness to pass. The bedside lamp was still on, its light intensifying the headache. She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and stopped breathing. Footprints indented the carpet from the bed to the door. Man-sized tracks. But she'd vacuumed sometime between the sixth beer and the tequila chaser. Or were the fumes in her head making up memories?
A terrifying thought hurdled her stomach to her throat. She stumbled from the bed and ran to the front door, clutching her churning belly.
She wiggled the door handle, and the deadbolt held as it should have. She knew she'd locked it before she'd destroyed all her brain cells. Glancing around, nothing seemed out of order, until her attention narrowed on the books.