Page 55 of Bourbon Truths
“And that is a problem because…?”
I ran my hand over the nape of my neck and looked up at the sky while I tried to find the right words to express my feelings. “I don’t know. I just thought…they should be mourning the loss of Marshal.”
“Maybe they are trying to move on, Kace. Something you should be doing. What you just saw were two souls trying to get on with their lives. Humans move on after traumatic incidences. The strong move on, Kace. You should be doing the same. If they’re happy, if they’re enjoying life, you should do the same.”
“I’m not going to fucking learn from them,” I snapped at Jett. “So they’re having a good day. That doesn’t mean they still aren’t reeling from their loss. Appearances aren’t everything.”
Not wanting to hear Jett’s retort, I took off toward the car. There was a bottle of whiskey waiting for me in my room, and it wasn’t going to drink itself.
Chapter Seventeen
My Present…
Numb.
My entire body was numb, and it wasn’t from sitting on the hardwood floors of my bedroom for hours on end. No, it was from the realization that Lyla was the grown-up version of Madeline.
It had been a week since I’d last spoken to Lyla, a week of living in my room, not moving from the confines of the four small walls unless I had to go to the bathroom or reload on liquor.
Diego and Blane had given up trying to get me to come out of my room after day four, especially after I threw my mattress at them.
My room was torn apart, my bed flipped upside down, my dresser tossed to the ground, and my bedding up against the door, blocking off any invaders. What used to be a safe haven was now a place of desolation.
A case of Maker’s Mark rested next to me, as well as multiple empty bottles. Booze seeped from my pores, and every time I went to the bathroom, I peed out a little piece of my liver, but I was unfazed. I welcomed the destruction of my body. It was almost a high for me.
My brain was in a fog as I looked around my room, taking in the torn curtains, the broken cellphone that rested at the baseboard of my floor from when I’d smashed it into the wall. Then there were the multiple holes in the wall from where my fists had plowed through it, searching for a little relief from the misery I was feeling.
My hands were swollen, bruised, and battered. Multiple lacerations lined them, and dried blood crusted my knuckles.
The last time I had taken a shower was about a week ago, and even though I smelled like a rotting body, I didn’t give one fuck. The only thing I cared about was the bottle in my hand and how quickly it was able to reach my lips.
I took pride in my ability to hold my alcohol, live a liquid diet, and waste my life away one amber droplet at a time.
I welcomed the challenge.
I rested my forehead against my arm that was propped against my knee while my hand gripped onto the neck of my bottle. I stared down at the ground, the cold, hard floor, wishing for the miserable life of mine to end. There was too much pain in my body, too much regret. I promised myself I would live this life out in torment, to pay back my sins through the agony of remorse but right about now, I would give anything to have it end.
Lyla had lost her dad, taken from her by the hands of another man. She’d grown up in the foster care system, fending for herself, praying day in and day out to be removed from her situation, to be extracted from the hell she was living in.
Now, she lived in a crumbling apartment, spending her nights stripping for horny and creepy men, wishing they could bone her in the back, wasting her life away just so she could earn a living.
Because of everything that had happened to her, she relied on no one, which was the main reason she wouldn’t take Jett’s help. She believed in the idea of being able to provide for herself, which was commendable, but she deserved so much better.
The telltale creak of the stairs gave away the approach of someone coming to my room. I kept my eyes on the ground, not letting the room spin on me from the amount of alcohol blazing through me, instead of trying to search out the intruder.
In a matter of seconds, there was a knock on my door. “Kace?”
Jett fucking Colby. I should have bet a million dollars on him showing up today. I’d felt it in my bones he would be making an appearance soon.
“Go the fuck away,” I grumbled, feeling the effects of the alcohol in my system.
Not listening to my demand, not that I thought he would, he pushed the bedroom door but was stopped by my mattress on the floor. I smiled inwardly at my attempt at a barrier.
“What the fuck,” Jett said behind the door, still pushing forward.
“I can squeeze through,” Goldie said, making me groan.
What the fuck was she doing here? “Don’t fucking come in here, Goldie,” I shouted, lifting my head and toppling to the side, spilling my liquor on the floor. With great panic, I swiped the bottle upright and tipped it toward my mouth while my cheek rested on the hard wood.
