Slight curves, wild dark hair, large blue eyes…
No, dammit! Why do I keep seeing Dakota in front of me?
I push off my stool, stumble a little and nod at the blonde. Her smile grows wider, and she sidles up to me. She’s wearing a micro skirt that shows off her long legs, made longer by dangerously high heels.
Yeah, she’ll do nicely. I grab her hand and drag her through the crowd. She squeals, then laughs, and I grit my teeth. Too high-pitched. Fake. No chimes and bells.
Oh, fuck’s sake, Zane.
I pull the blonde into the twilight zone behind the last tables and into the dimness. That’s my territory, my domain: the dark. I slow down to let her catch up and then swing her around, pushing her back to the wall. She yelps, teetering on those ridiculous heels.
“I have some rules,” I tell her. “Non-negotiable.”
She nods, her eyes wide.
“You don’t touch me. Only I touch you. You don’t put your arms around me, don’t even fucking think about touching my back, and no kissing.”
“Okay, babe. Whatever gets you off.”
For some reason, her eager submissiveness—and the pet name—pisses me off. Which is sick, since submissiveness is what I want from her.
“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Linda.”
I don’t reply. Not interested in her name, or in conversation of any kind. I grab her wrist with my other hand and slap it into the wall. She yelps again, giving me a wounded puppy look.
“You like it rough, huh?” She licks her red lips. “I don’t mind.”
“Shut up.” I brace one hand on the wall and look down at her cleavage. Familiar motions. Only problem is, my body isn’t acting very interested, and I don’t feel like touching her breasts, or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.
Dammit. This isn’t working. I release her and start to pull back.
“What’s your hurry?” She slips her arms around my neck, pressing up to me.
Fuck. My heart jolts in my chest, and I jerk. I shove her off, slam her to the wall. “I said, rule number one: don’t fucking touch my back!”
“But I thought—”
“You thought wrong.”
And so did I.
I thought life would continue as before. Same places, same actions, same results. But nothing is the same anymore. This world I’ve built around me is made of glass, and it’s already cracking.
It’s morning. Late morning, perhaps. Something stupid is playing on TV, a talk show, people dressed in fancy clothes. I’ve turned off the sound.
I’ve also turned off my cell phone, but there’s pounding on my door. It comes and goes. I let it. It’s a counterpoint to the pounding in my head.
Sheets of paper are strewn around me, covered in my drawings. I thought it’d help me relax, but I guess it wasn’t enough. My eyes feel dry and gritty. Spent all night trying to get the anger on the paper, and it wasn’t fucking enough.
My glass is empty again. I give it a disgusted look, before I reach for the bottle. Problem is, it’s on the coffee table. Too far. Can’t remember why I put it there.
I slide off the couch and land on my ass on the carpet. The room spins, and I blink, trying to clear my vision. The bottle seems to sway on the table, and when I reach for it, it’s splintering, refracting into a prism of dancing colors.
Whoa.
I reach through them and wrap my fingers around the solid, cool bottle. Somewhere along the way down to the floor I’ve lost the glass, but who needs one? I unscrew the lid and take a swig. I’ve been drinking since last night. Dimly, I’m aware I should stop. Someone should stop me. But the pounding on the door has ceased, and it’s easier to just drink some more and work on forgetting. Not that I’m having any success, but I’m not known for giving up so easily.
I work hard on my self-destruction.
This strikes me as funny, and I start laughing, then realize it ain’t funny at all, and I choke down some more whiskey. No idea why my eyes burn like this.
A chime sounds, and I look up, confused.
Then it sounds again.
The doorbell.
I frown. After all the pounding on my door, who would just ring the bell? Not a guy, I think randomly. Ash, Dylan or Rafe would keep pounding on the door until it crashes. Which is why I’m not letting them in or answering the phone. Because then I’ll have to talk, and explain, and I… I can’t fucking do this right now.
The bell rings again.
“Go away!” I yell, and fucking ow, my head. It’s about to split apart. “Just go.”
Someone yells from the other side of the door, “Zane, open up! Open this door.” A woman’s voice. “Please.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m not leaving. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
I stare at the door. The only thing that comes to my mind is, this isn’t Erin. Is it Tessa? There’s something in that voice…
My body is reacting to it, even though my brain is having trouble. I put the bottle down. “Dammit.” I struggle to my feet. My stomach roils as I stumble to the door. “What the hell…”
Looks like I locked my door last night when I came home, and now the damn lock is stuck. I curse it and jiggle the lock until it turns. The door opens.
Okay, I’m drunker than I thought. There’s no reason for her to be at my door on a Monday morning, looking pissed, cute and damn sexy in her ripped jeans and tight black top.
“Dakota?” My voice slurs, and I wipe a hand over my mouth, hoping I’m not drooling.
She stalks inside, her eyes unreadable, and I grimace, waiting for the tirade I can see coming. Why the hell did I let her in? Where does my good sense go whenever she’s around?
I close the door and turn to face her, bracing.
But she doesn’t speak. She steps close and gazes up at me with those big blue eyes. I can’t help noticing they seem a bit too bright. Then she shakes her head, opens her arms and wraps them around me.
I flinch. I can’t help it, but she holds on tight, and slowly I relax. It’s just a hug, I remind myself. I can do friendly hugs. Erin and Megan hug me often. As long as there’s nothing sexual about it, I’m okay.
Besides, unlike in some of my darkest nightmares, I can see her face, and I know it’s all right. It’s her, Dakota, and nothing bad will happen.
Her light honeyed scent calms me. I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to do or say, except put my arms around her too and close my eyes for a moment. The tension that’s been keeping me rigid for days melts away, and weirdly, as I sag heavily against her, I feel like I’m floating.
The moment doesn’t last. She pulls away. “You should call Asher and Rafe,” she whispers, and this time she doesn’t look me in the eye. “They’re worried sick about you. The only reason Asher hasn’t called the police is that your light has been on, and he heard you yell at him to fuck off.”