“She here alone?” My jaw locks, waiting for the answer.
“She’s with a group of girls.”
Thank God.
“Have you spoken to her yet?” Fox inquires while I search her out.
Fuck, it’s the question of the week.
“I’m working on it,” I tell them, unsure exactly how I’m working on it. After hanging with Mitch yesterday for three hours, I was disappointed to find Liberty didn’t come back from the store. Knowing she wasn’t going to show up while I was there, I gave up waiting and told Mitch I’d be back in a couple of days.
“Well, you have the perfect chance now.” Tate nods toward the booth they’re sitting in, giving up their location.
Not giving one fuck what the boys think of my lack of self-respect, I turn to get a better view and take her in. Chest expanding, pulse quickening.
Fuck me, I almost forgot how beautiful she is.
Her blonde hair is down tonight, just the way I like it. The mess of curls perfected in a tidy way. Red lips that have haunted my dreams are spread into a wide smile as she laughs at something Payton says.
Fuck, I’m the biggest fucking dickhead to walk this earth.
She is mine.
All fucking mine.
And I left her.
I was wrong thinking I was doing the right thing by walking away from her. All I did was delay the inevitable.
She’s it for me, and even if it still scares me a little, as God as my witness, I am prepared to do anything to make it right.
Beg.
Grovel.
Fight dirty.
She is mine, and fuck, I need to claim her back.
Twenty-Eight
Liberty
“Here’s to my sabbatical, take two.” I raise my fifth shot for the night, bring it to my lips, and throw my head back. The amber liquid stopped burning after the third shot, my tongue and throat numb to the elixir.
“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time you subjected yourself to that horrid idea?” Fee slams her glass down on the table and motions the waitress for another round.
“What? Icansooooodoitthistime.” My words roll together in a jumble of barely distinguishable syllables.
“Girl, you’re so drunk, you think you can take on the world.” Sophie nudges beside me, cradling the same drink for over an hour.
She lucked out and was dubbed designated driver.
“I’m not drunk!” I yell. I think I’m offended or maybe winded.
Okay, maybe on my way to being drunk.
Each shot Fee feeds me offers me a new lease on life. A new kind of promise.
No men.
No sex.
No Hetch.
“Lib, you just downed your seventh shot.” Payton giggles and I giggle along with her.
“Shit. Okay, I think I am drunk.” I quickly take stock of my bearings. We’re at some pub Payton dragged me to. What was meant to be one celebratory drink, has turned into not five, like I originally thought, but seven.
“Isn’t it great? You were all tense and uptight, and now you haven’t a care in the world.” Payton, oblivious to my sobering state at the mention of my troubles, wistfully smiles and reaches for her cocktail.
I’m about to tell her I’m still a little tense about my exchange with Hetch yesterday when a tall glass of water is delivered to our table and placed down in front of me.
“Ahh, what’s this?” My curiosity piqued, I look up at the pretty waitress.
“I thought you could do with some water.” She offers a smile, one I don’t know how to read before she turns and walks back toward the bar.
What the heck?
“I think you have an admirer.” Fee’s eyes dance along with her brows, the insinuation the woman has a thing for me dangles in front of me.
“What? No way,” I refute, but still turn my head to see if there is some truth to Fee’s words. The waitress doesn’t pay me any more attention, going about her shift like I’m not even on her radar.
“Well, this is weird.” Payton laughs, confused like me. I eye the glass of water wondering what the hell she’s up to. Why did she only bring me water, and not the rest of them? I mean, sure, I’m a little drunk, but I’m not dancing on the table.
I’m still eyeing the glass when my phone vibrates in front of me. Turning it over, my chest constricts when I see Hetch’s name flash across the screen in a text.
Hetch: Drink the water.
It takes a few calming breaths, and an internal pep talk to realize he sent the water over, and in turn, is here in the same pub.
Crap.
Me: Thanks, but I’m good.
I manage to type back, before casually looking around to find him. See, I’m not that drunk if I can still text efficiently.
A burst of adrenaline rushes through me when three dots dance in the bottom left-hand corner telling me he’s typing.
Hetch: Don’t be difficult. You’re drunk, and there are at least five fuckers around you waiting to pounce.
This time, I don’t hide my blatant searching.
Where the hell is he?
My eyes scan the bar hoping to spot him. When I only find three seedy men eyeing me off, I quickly type out another reply.
Me: Why does it matter to you?