“Mik—”
“Leave!” I shout, cutting Kolya off before he can get in a single word.
He looks like he wants to argue but chooses life instead.
After a brief dip of his chin, he gestures for the housekeeping staff to leave before he follows their brisk exit, leaving me as alone and isolated as I feel.
My feet drag, heavy and uncooperative, as I make my way down the hallway. The dim lighting from the overhead fixturescast long shadows, making the narrow space feel even more constrictive.
My shoulder clips the edge of an antique hallway table halfway down, sending a vase crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoes through the quiet, and I curse under my breath.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my shoulder.
The pain is sharp, but it is nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
I drank like a fish over the past several hours to both numb the pain and avoid the conversation my heart wants to have with my head.
No matter how many shots I downed in a dingy watering hole five clicks from Zelenolsk, my heart’s begs didn’t lessen. Its rebelliousness meant I downed liquor too fast to be responsible and uncaring that I had to leave my custom Irbis in the unsecured lot of a rundown bar.
I’d give a shit if I hadn’t learned again, only hours ago, that a man’s most prized possession isn’t materialistic.
After dumping my bottle of whiskey onto the hallway table, I lean against the wall, trying to steady myself. The wallpaper, with its horrid floral pattern, blurs before my eyes. I close them for a moment and take a deep breath. The room spins, but I stay upright—just. I drank so many shots so quickly that my veins are filled more with alcohol than blood.
When I open my eyes again, the shattered vase is still there, mocking me. I should clean it up. I hate leaving my messes to anyone else, but the thought of bending down makes my stomach churn. Instead, I kick a piece of glass out of my way, cursing again when a sharp pain hits my foot.
Looking down, I see a large piece of glass embedded in my shoe. There’s blood, too. A lot of blood. But no pain.
I laugh.Finally, the alcohol I consumed in excess has reached its desired strength.
I’m about to pull the shard out, when a voice at the side stops me in my tracks—a highly recognized and stupidly highly craved voice. “Don’t yank it out yet. We need to make sure the area is sterile before exposing a wound to the elements and ensure that the shard didn’t nick anything vital,” Emerson says, kneeling to inspect my foot.
Even though I am sloshed, my cock hardens at the image of her kneeling before me. It pisses me off how quickly she can weave herself under my skin, but cut me some slack. I didn’t lie when I said this woman could stab me in the heart repeatedly and I’d still come back for more.
I’m a fucking simp.
“There’s too much dirt on your shoes to remove the glass here.” Emerson peers up at me, her eyes full of concern. “We should do it in the bathroom. Can you walk?” Although she’s asking a question, she leaps to her feet and then bands her arm around my waist, accepting the brunt of the weight the wall was supporting.
Although she is here, helping me, it does little to drown out the last words she spoke to me.
I don’t want to be remembered as a dud.
Her voice was hazed with lust, and a fire burned in her eyes I’ve not seen in a decade that I would have given anything to squander with hours beneath the sheets, but the definition of remembered is to bring to one’s mind an awareness of someone or something from the past.
Past.
Not present.
Not future.
Past.
Spit flies in all directions when Ipfftmy stupidity at how easily I fell under her spell again. The flirting, the connection, the whizz back in time, were nothing but a ploy for payment.
“Why are you here, Emerson? They paid you, so you should have left hours ago.”
Ignoring me, she continues our slow and careful walk down the hallway.
I grit my teeth, the pain and alcohol making it hard to think straight. “I don’t need your help.”
