“Sloane.”
I stiffen at Kiln’s voice. I don’t want to hear what the fuck he has to say, but that’s never stopped him before and it doesn’t now. “It’s nice that you’re trying to repay the universe for all your sins. This girl isn’t the way to do it.”
It comes to me that this is the most we’ve all spoken to each other in months. Even if the subject is unwelcomed, we’re talking.
“I’m here tonight and I’m not leaving again, so she stays with me. I’ll get her to her house as soon as possible and without detection in the morning.”
“This isn’t fucking altruistic on your part,” Kiln accuses. “You look at her like you’re ready to fuck her brains out.”
I meet Kiln’s furious gaze and smile without humor. “That’s because I am.”
“You love to play with fucking fire,” he continues in that same tone. The one I fucking hate because he’s an asshole. He goes to the desk on the other side of the room and pulls out the room service menu. He flips through it, intermittently glaring at me, before throwing it aside. “I want a fucking steak.” Sitting on the sofa, he resembles an angry dog who’s had his bone stolen.
Adam sighs and sits. “I guess I’ll have one, too.”
“You don’t have to change your plans for me,” I mutter when Quint and Maitland follow suit in both the decision to stay and want of a steak.
“We don’t,” Maitland agrees, “but, it feels good to offer more words than something about fucking music. She’s right. How can we create some fucking spastic songs if we aren’t getting along?”
“She’s gorgeous,” Adam says.
I pour another drink. “I know.” At one time, I could’ve trusted them with the entire sordid story of Cassandra, Parnell, and Georgiana in my own words. Kiln’s version probably paints me in the worst possible light. I don’t care. I refuse to defend one more action of mine to them. Besides, I’m not comfortable sharing the details of my saga with the McCalls. I’ve been on their shit list for so long, I don’t remember how it felt when we were so tight. So I don’t elaborate. I merely order room service for us and wait for Georgie’s reappearance.
Chapter Nine
Georgie
I lean against the counter and stare into the mirror. The private bathroom in the suite isn’t anything out of the ordinary in terms of luxury hotels. Various shades of brown mosaic compromises three of the walls, with the fourth having double sinks and a recessed vanity along with the huge mirror. Shelves beneath the sink are made with the same, small mosaic tiles, and hold fluffy, white towels, spa slippers, and a robe that’s been stuffed inside, obviously used. Light beige ceramic floors expand the room, removing the closed in effect created by the mosaic. A glass enclosed shower is opposite me. The toilet and bidet is around a little corner, separated. An oval tub, encased in wood, beckons me, but I just stand and continue to stare at myself.
My hair is messy, the curling strands hanging every way possible, despite my constant finger combing. My lips are a reddish pink as if I’ve applied lipstick, and my cheeks are flushed, but my eyes draw my attention. They’re dull and sad, smudged with black circles. I was released from the hospital a little over forty-eight hours ago with a good bill of health, but not completely clean.
Not knowing what to do anymore, I bow my head. I want to do better. Spending my life using blow and weed and alcohol, and sucking Crowell’s dick so he won’t leave me, isn’t a life. I know, too, that Sloane is trying to help me, so my disappointment that he won’t bring me to orgasm feels silly.
But this is what I know. This is how Crowell trained me…I scowl. I’m not a little lapdog. I just have no better way to describe my relationship with my brother’s best friend. Looking after me began as a favor to Josh. Then, slowly, he offered to make the pain go away, assuring me coke wouldn’t hurt. He swore using was better than committing suicide. As long as I didn’t become addicted.
I am. I know. He knows it. And, apparently, Sloane knows it, too. What I’m addicted to, I’m not quite sure. The blow? After the first few times, Crowell said I’d have to pay for a hit. I thought he meant money, which I have more than enough of.
He meant sex. Oral sex. My first orgasm hit me hard and I knew I’d do anything in the world to get more. Orgasms, to me, are always best strung out. He’s never given me one when we were sober. Now, he’s promising that he will if I let him visit me. The catch is it must be tonight. I’m here, though. With Sloane.
It surprises me how much I don’t want to leave. I should, though. I should slink away. Every time I open my mouth and tell Sloane his favorites, I discover how little I know about him.
Glancing down, I hold out my hands to study my wrists. Tears rush to my eyes again. I feel so lost and so alone and I wonder…I wonder, if, perhaps, death is the answer.