Page 125 of My Heart Still Beats
I keep my lips sewn shut.
He pulls away and frowns. “So that’s it? You’re going to punish me for being honest with you?”
“Punish you?” I shake my head. “It’s her or me, Garrett. You have to choose.”
“But we’re supposed to meet for a late dinner, remember?”
Yeah. The late dinner. I was going to surprise him with homemade guac for an appetizer before we went. The homemade guac that’s now all over his stoop.
I cross my arms. “Fine. Choose. Or I’m out of here.”
He narrows his gaze. “I don’t like ultimatums, Tessa.”
“I don’t like giving them, but you need to make your choice, Garrett. Lolita or me.”
“But I just met her. It’s nothing—”
“Are you not hearing me? I said choose.”
He glares at me. “Fine. I choose the one who isn’t making me choose. I choose her.”
I turn and walk out of his house. His concrete stoop is full of broken glass and ruined guacamole. It’s my favorite pitcher, but I’ll live. I leave the mess, choking back sobs.
When I get home, Rita clamors for attention at my feet. I grab her and hold her to my heart. “You love me, don’t you, Rita?”
She scrambles out of my arms. I grab my phone and call Betsy.
“Bets?” I say, when she answers. “Get dressed. We’re going clubbing.”
…
I need to work on Betsy’s wardrobe. She’s a pretty girl, but she insists on wearing baggy dresses when she’s got a killer body. Still, she looks great tonight with her hair pulled away from her face in a headband and a flowing burgundy mini dress. For once she’s wearing clunky sandals instead of military boots.
Once we’re at the club, we head to the bar and squeeze into a standing space. I order two margaritas and down mine before Betsy takes her first sip.
“Ease up, Tessa,” Betsy says to me.
“I’m good.” I nod to the bartender.
He’s new here, and he’s a treat for the eyes—blond hair, green eyes, and muscles that go on for days. Plus a huge tattoo all over his forearm. It’s a bird of some sort.
He waves at me. “Be with you in a sec.”
I simply hold up my margarita glass. Universal language for give me another, and quick.
A moment later, he’s got my margarita, and he slides it to me with a smile. “You want to try something stronger?” he asks.
“Stronger than tequila? You mean a shot, right?”
He gestures to the end of the bar. “Meet me over there.”
Betsy’s still nursing her drink and watching the dance floor, so I wander to the end of the bar. The bartender grabs my hand and takes me behind the bar to a small room where boxes of liquor are stored.
He holds out his hand. In it is a small light-blue pill.
“If you’re having a bad night,” he says, “this will get you out of your funk.”
I pick up the small tablet and examine it. The word SKY is etched on it.
