The door slams open, a cold breeze rushes through, it feels more like a fucking disturbance than a chill.
Click. Click. Click.
The heels are the first thing I register through the hazeof noise. Then a blast of overusedRoja Haute Luxeinvades my senses, and I have to will myself not to fucking gag.
I don’t bother turning around, I already fucking hate her.
“Two cosmopolitans. Extra cold,” the woman says, leaning against the counter like the place might stain her. Her voice is sharp and nasally, wrapped in forced charm. “My husband wanted to try some ‘local flavor’ before we continue to Charleston.”
I turn around, pouring her stupid drinks.
“Cute,” I say flatly, sliding the drinks toward her. “Hope he enjoys the tetanus in the bathrooms.”
She lifts one perfectly manicured hand to examine her glass as if it might be contaminated. “God, I didn’t know this place was still standing,” she hums, glancing around with a tight smile. “I haven’t been back in this dump since I was engaged to—oh, what was his name? Caleb? No—Carter.”
My body stills. Did she just?
Her red-tipped fingernail taps against the rim of the glass. “Right. Carter Hayes. Tragiclittlecowboy. He sent me an emotional letter after his mom croaked. I read it in Mykonos while getting a massage. Honestly forgot all about him until we drove by and I saw this hick bar still standing.”
Oh hell no. This bitch really fucking said his name. I squeeze the glass in my hand, my fingers digging into the bar as I raise my eyes to hers.
The anger about my father, my grief, everything that I have been holding in and shouldering alone, comes to the surface.
And this bitch is about the get the shit end of the stick of my rampage.
“Oh,” I say sweetly. “Carter?”
She blinks at me, stunned.
Stupid bitch.
“The one who fucks me into next week every time I say his name like a good girl?”
Her plastic expression falters, her face draining of whatever fucking color she had from her pasty white skin.
I lean in closer, our noses almost touching. “He’s never been tragic, you cunt. He’s mine, say something about him again and I’ll rip the filler from your fake ass lips.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, or are you stupid?” I grin. “He comes back from ranch chores covered in sweat, dirt, and the smell of hay—and I still get on my fucking knees for him. I’d ask if you miss him, but from the looks of your husband,” I glance behind her at the spineless man hovering like a designer-clad mosquito. “you’ve clearly settled for less.”
She scoffs. “You’re just a phase, honey. He’ll get bored with your Dollar Tree lingerie and move on.”
Pues, fíjate que no me importa. (Well guess what? I don’t care.)
“Bitch, before I came here I could buy your shitty, designer outfit about a hundred times or more. But that shit doesn't fucking matter to me.” I spit out, “And honey? He already fucking moved on the second you walked out of his life. You left him hurting like a pathetic loser.” I bite out. “Oh, and one more thing,” I tap my finger on my lips maliciously. “He upgraded to a woman who knows how to make him come.”
She lunges at me, trying to reach for my hair. But I’m faster.
My hand snakes across the bar, fisting her sleek platinum blonde ponytail, yanking hard enough to tilt her head back. She screeches, her red nails clawing toward me, but Idrag her over the counter like a ragdoll and slam her into the bar rail with a satisfying thunk.
“You wanna talk shit about Carter Hayes at the place I work?” I snarl, pressing her face to the dingy wood. “You do it without my name in your fucking mouth, pendeja.”
Someone overturns a table, and drinks shatter. Bar patrons are screaming, shoving like fucking animals causing a bar fight.
All hell breaks loose.
Her hand grabs my wrist, twisting it hard enough to make me wince.
