“All of your fucking clothes seem to be in various stages of ruin. If you’re in this place, you obviously have money, so why the fuck do you dress like you can’t afford new clothes?”
“These are comfy. Why do I need to spend an absurd amount of money on clothes when the ones I have fit just fine and they’re comfortable?”
I mean… touché.
He leads me through the jungle along the trail, and I already know where we’re going before we actually reach the waterfall.
“Are we here for round two?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my tone.
Tossing me a toothy grin, he says, “We can be. Or…” He pulls something out of his pocket, before turning around to show me. It’s a bottle of—
“Whiskey?” I gape at him. “Where the fuck did you get that?”
Rowan’s walking backward as he twists the cap off, breaking the seal. He takes a swig before capping it back up and handing it to me. “From Josiah.”
I take it, but don’t open it yet. “Who the fuck is Josiah?”
His brows draw inward, like he’s confused about how I wouldn’t know this person. “He’s one of our housekeepers.”
We get to the waterfall—the same one I decked him at—and he plops his ass right in the sand, patting a spot beside him. Begrudgingly, I take a seat, cracking open the bottle and downing a few swallows. It’s fucking nasty. Cheap shit. But it’ll do.
“How did you get this?” I ask, passing the bottle back to him.
“From Josiah,” he repeats.
“Yeah, I fucking heard you. I meant how.”
“Oh!” He chuckles, taking another shot. “By blowing him.”
My gaze snaps to his. “What?” I hiss. “Are you serious?”
Reaching into his pocket again, he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, plucking two out. “Sure,” he replies with a grin as he flicks the Zippo, lighting both cigarettes, and passing me one. “Or am I?”
I roll my eyes, placing it between my teeth and taking a deep drag. The smoke fills my lungs, the toxic chemicals making my head feel light. It’s been far too long since I’ve had one of these and, truthfully, I think it’s this I miss more than any other substance. I’ve been smoking for as long as I can remember. The first time I ever lit up a cigarette, I was probably thirteen. Maybe even a little younger.
The drugs came young, as did the drinking, but not that young.
Pulling out my ear buds, I stick them in, turning on a playlist. It takes but one single minute before Rowan is plucking one out and putting it in his own ear.
Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
Thankfully, he stays quiet for a while as we pass the bottle back and forth, listening to music.
Unfortunately for me, it doesn’t last.
“So, how long are you here for?” he asks.
“Ninety days,” I grunt out.
“Me too!” He’s always so fucking chipper. It’s nauseating.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re here ’cause of that incident with the girl in your hotel room, huh?”
Of fucking course, he knows about that. Who doesn’t?
I don’t respond, instead uncapping the bottle to take another swig. Small talk has never been a favorite of mine. It’s pointless. Talk to me about real, deep shit, or don’t talk to me at all. However, I’d prefer he didn’t talk to me at all. I’m not here to make friends.
