“Why do you keep torturing yourself, Seb?” she asked softly.
“’M not.” He caught her wrist and squeezed, managed to smile. “I’m fine, Marin. You. . . . go on home. Come back later. I’ll be . . . I’ll be sober.”
“You’re hardly ever sober.”
That hurt. He’d spent the past week sober. He wasn’t even totally wasted now. Why hadn’t she come around then? He could have shown her. She might have been . . . well, not proud. Big fucking deal. Look at me, Marin . . . I’m a good little boy. I’m not drunk. But he had been proud of himself.
Up until now.
Now he was just pathetic.
And he was tired of it.
Frowning, he nudged her hand down and edged around her, moving to the cabinet where he’d taken to keeping his alcohol. He’d long since drank the supply in his bar and he didn’t entertain anymore, so why keep it in such an inconvenient place?
He grabbed two bottles at random and moved to the sink. “Wanna help?”
Focusing on what he was doing, rather than whether or not she’d join him, he fought with the heavy wax seal on a bottle and finally got it open. Marin had already drained the one she held before he got the stopper out of his. The room was soon filled with the heavy miasma of booze—the peaty scent of scotch, underscored with tequila and rum.
When they were done, six bottles emptied of booze, sat on the counter.
“No more drinking, Marin.”
“I’m glad.”
They shared a glance.
Sebastien nodded, feeling awkward, and then he turned away. He staggered a little, half tripping over his feet, and the rush of blood to his face didn’t help his state of mind any. Of all the times to turn into a clumsy drunk—he had to do it in front of Marin?
“Here . . .”
She came to his side but he pulled away. “I can do it,” he snapped.
“Sebastien—”
“Don’t touch me!”
She jerked back, stung.
He saw the hurt in her eyes and he swore, because that was the last thing he’d ever wanted.
“I . . . Marin . . .”
She went to back away and he caught her arms. The strappy tank she wore left too much of her skin bare and the feel of all that softness under his hands hit his alcohol-laden brain hard and fast. The need lingering just under the surface began to pulse through his veins and he throttled it down as he grappled for a way to fix the pain he’d caused.
“It’s not . . . I’m sorry,” he said. “I just . . . I don’t want you having to . . .” He stroked a thumb down her arm. “It’s my own damn fault if I end up on my ass, Marin.”
She tugged away from him again and he let go, his hands falling to his sides, big and empty and useless. She turned away from him and that sense of uselessness increased, only getting worse when she sniffed. Standing a few feet away from him, she cleared her throat. “We should get you sobered up,” she said. “I came out here to talk to you.”
Sebastien didn’t want to sober up and talk, though. He wanted oblivion, wanted to forget the misery he had caused.
She sniffed again and drawn in by the slump of her shoulders, he came up behind her. She’d scooped her hair up, exposing the elegant curve of her neck, the vulnerable nape.
“I’m sorry, Marin,” he murmured.
She went to duck away and he brought his arms up, caging her in by the counter. She tensed.
The scent of her was getting to him and he told himself he needed to listen to her—get some food in him, some water, take a shower . . . sober up—instead, he dropped his head down on her shoulder. The nearness of her already had him rock hard and all the months of celibacy began to whisper like demons in his ear.
But when she sighed and turned around, he didn’t do anything.
This was Marin and she’d made it clear she didn’t want him.
“It’s okay, Sebastien.” She reached up and touched his cheek. Her thumb slid over the scar.
He caught her wrist, ready to tug her hand away—he’d take her touch anyway he could get it, but not there.
Except Marin wasn’t easily deterred, a fact he’d learned all too well over the past year. “You need to stop drowning your demons in alcohol and you’ve got to stop chasing them down yourself. They do a good enough job finding you on their own.”
With his thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, he searched for something to say in response.
“I don’t—” But he had to stop, because he wasn’t sure she was wrong. He’d thought he was running from them, but they always caught up to him when the nights were quiet. Back when he’d been drinking them away, they’d be there waiting when the fog of alcohol cleared. Now, at night, when he lay awake, they were just . . . there.
Too often, he’d drift to sleep only to jerk awake in a panic, thinking he was back on that sidewalk again, staring down Hanson while time slowed to a crawl as they grappled for the knife.