Snagging my attention, sucking all the air out of the room, leaving me gasping.
Shit.
This is a girl I shouldn’t be fantasizing about. She’s never even checked me out or showed any interest in touching me beyond reading my palm.
Maybe I should let her tell me my fortune. Tell me how fucked up I am, as if I didn’t know.
Or maybe I just need to get hammered until I forget my own name, then grab a random chick and bang her in the darkness to get the need out of my system.
It’s this bone-deep exhaustion, I tell myself, this hopelessness that’s been dogging my steps lately.
It’s that I’ve gone too fucking long without a good fuck, without some goddamn relief, and tonight looks like the perfect opportunity to get some.
***
Some beers later, I’m getting there—to that Zen-like twilight zone where the crap life likes to chuck at me makes no impact, where everything is a little bit brighter and responsibilities feel a little bit lighter resting on my shoulders.
Plus, the chicks have moved to the dance floor, and without Kayla keeping a hold on my attention with her warm energy and hot curves, I might be able to see what else the bar has to offer. Time to set in motion part two of tonight’s plan.
Micah’s talking to Jesse, who’s pretending to listen but is instead staring fixedly in the direction of the dance floor, where presumably Amber is, while Seth’s whispering something to Shane who’s nodding and sipping at his dark beer, his gaze faraway.
Probably thinking of his own girl, Cassie.
What a pussy-whipped group we are. Not that I care. Not as long as the guys seem happy, and they do.
That’s all that matters.
Now if only I could make my dick happy tonight, too…
I glance around, squinting in the dim lights. I normally don’t screw girls in Halo, although it’s where we hang out most of the time, and I keep telling myself it’s because it feels kinda weird when everyone else in our little gang is practically married.
Then again, when have I ever cared about that—about what others thought about me?
An image of Kayla’s brightly-colored mouth and bright eyes flashes through my mind, and I shake my head to clear it.
What the fuck, right? She’s not even my type. Whatever my type is. Eager and easily forgotten, I guess. And yeah, I know what that says about me.
So what? Nothing new there. I’m bad news. A douchebag. An uncaring asshole. Just ask my brother. He’ll tell you all about it. Not like I have a girlfriend who will give a damn or anything.
There’s nobody, in fact, who would give a damn.
Suddenly pissed at the world—the past, the present and the dimness of the future—I push to my feet and lurch off, my beer clutched in one hand.
Pussy quest. Here, pussy, pussy…
I snicker as I stagger toward the bar. Yeah, I’m wasted. How the fuck did that happen with just a couple of beers?
Probably because my stomach’s emptier than my bank account. It rumbles as I head to the back of Halo, taking another swig from my bottle.
Leaning against the bar, I wave at the bartender for another beer, when I spot two tall girls swaying to the music, laughing and singing along. It’s a remake of “Cherry Bomb” by Joan Jett, I realize, and scratch absently at the tattoo on the inside of my arm.
Livvy liked rock music much more than I. She’d probably be pissed as all hell to hear this pop version of one of her favorite songs.
Jesus. This is fucked-up. The thought of her is starting to leach the buzz from my system. Thank fuck the bartender slides another bottle in front of me. Right on time.
Or maybe too late. I’m not in the mood anymore, not able to let go. The latest argument with my brother over the phone echoes inside my skull, Mom’s empty expression fills my mind, and the anniversary of the accident is coming up.
Four years.