But Jude brought it to the surface. Seeing him here confirms every reservation I had about him. I’d known he was bad news since the moment we met and I hadn’t stayed away. How could I when our paths kept crossing? But maybe that wasn’t an accident. Maybe he was even worse than I originally suspected.
Addicts are predators. They sense the weak and wounded in the pack and pounce. In nature, it does the herd a service, removing the ones slowing the rest down and the inherent threat they pose. Maybe it’s the same with people. We’re all subject to the laws of evolution. But with men like that, men who hunt, it isn’t a quick death. It’s slow. They murder you bit by bit, stripping away each piece until all you have left is the air you breathe. It’s not a life to live in fear or pain.
So why the hell am I getting out of the car?
Someone is screaming in my head to turn around. Because I wanted to believe in him and I am pissed that I can’t. Instead I walk through the cloud of cigarette smoke by the door, ignoring the attentions of the men puffing away in the cold. I stride inside, laser-focused on my target. His back is to me as he scopes out the bar. I haven’t thought of what to say to him. I have no claim on this man and I definitely have no sane reason to be chasing him into a bar. Somehow I still find myself moving toward him. Hateful thoughts tumble in my head as I try to decide on my opening line.
“What the fuck?” It’s all that comes up. Probably because it’s the one thing I really want to know. It’s not exactly that I need an explanation as to why he chose to come here. It’s more that I want to understand what I’m feeling. The truth is that I want to know why I’m here.
Jude pivots around and stares at me with a fuzzy expression. The one you have when you’ve just woken up in a strange place. But his confusion isn’t the result of drinking because it quickly shifts to annoyance. The line of his jaw tightens as he regards me. “Did you follow me?”
“Not that it’s any of your business”—It totally was—“but no. I saw you while I was driving home.”
“And then you followed me?” He crosses his arms; his tattoos stretch over his contracting biceps.
“I…I…”
“Exactly, Sunshine” The harshness is gone from his tone, but his words remain firm.
Frustration sparks into anger. “I guess I cared. Sue me. And don’t call me Sunshine.”
I whip around, but I don’t make it one step toward the door before his hand catches my wrist.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His apology freezes me to the spot. I should go. We both know that I have no right to be here.
I turn back to him, but I don’t pull away. “We shouldn’t be here.”
This time I’m the one who is right. First rule of staying clean is to actually stay clean, even alcohol was off-limits. Jude knows that, and even though his apology has stopped me in my tracks, I can’t ignore the indiscretion.
“I have to be here, but you don’t.”
Now I tug away, shaking my head. “Give me one good reason.”
He pauses as if considering whether he wants to answer. A line appears between his eyes as he concentrates. Is he making up a story? Something that will appease my curiosity? The truth is simple enough. It’s merely a set of facts. Lies take more effort.
“Don’t bother,” I snap. I haven’t known Jude long enough to know what kind of man he is, but I do know what kind of man I hoped he was. As usual the reality is a disappointment.
“Faith, give me a chance—”
“You think I haven’t?” He’s more delusional than I thought. “I’ve given you more of a chance than anyone.”
Any man, at least. Furious heat flushes across my cheeks. I don’t know Jude Mercer and he doesn’t know me. End of story.
“Wait!” he calls before I reach the exit. “You wanted one good reason?”
I nod, bracing myself for whatever excuse he’s concocted.
But he doesn’t speak instead, he takes my shoulders and turns me toward the bar. His lips whisper against my ear. “There’s your reason. She called me and I came to convince her to leave.”
I didn’t see her when I walked in, but now I can’t tear my eyes off of her. Anne. But not Anne. This isn’t the woman valiantly holding herself together at meetings. Her hair, the suit, even the ostentatious Louis Vuitton she carried are all the same. But I’m staring at a barfly. A couple empties in front of her. Even from a distance her hand trembles as she raises her glass to her lips. Lips that still bore the faded remnants of lipstick. She made an effort this morning, that much was obvious from her appearance, but her day had since crumbled and her along with it. Her carefully styled hair is flat on one side and frizzy on the other. If her outfit had been ironed, I can’t tell now.
“Shit.” There’s not much else to say.
“I gave her my number a few weeks ago,” he explains.
But I don’t hear anything else. I don’t have his number, and even as I gawk at a woman ruining her life in real time, I’m jealous. Further proof that I’m a terrible person.
“So she called you?” I ask slowly, and he came.