Cruel Beloved

“You can trust me, Carla.” I shake my head, pushing myself up and off the wall. The bottle slips from my grip and shatters at my bare feet.

“Carla, you’re a mess,” my father says.

“You made me this way. Now leave. I need to go to bed.” I step off, and before I realize what I’m doing, my feet are cut by the broken glass. It stings, and I drop, but before I hit the floor, Whiskey’s there, lifting me into his arms. My head spins and I clutch it.

“You should go,” Whiskey says to my father.

“She needs me,” my father replies.

“No, she doesn’t. Now leave my hous—”

“My house,” I interject.

“Yeah, yeah, rich girl,” he says into my ear.

“I’ll call tomorrow, Carla.” I don’t even bother replying to him as Whiskey carries me to the bedroom. I don’t hold on, but he doesn’t need me to. He’s strong enough to hold me himself.

“I am sorry. So sorry,” Whiskey says.

“Your words won’t work. Actions now, that’s all you have left.”

Whiskey looks at me, and I look back at him. When he walks in the bedroom, he places me on the bed and kisses my forehead. It’s soft, and he lingers, breathing me in. “If that’s what it takes.”

“It will take more than that,” I say, my head falling back until I am lying flat on the bed. Whiskey disappears and comes back with a first aid kit and sits down, lifting my foot, then gets to work on it.

“Why are your things packed?” he asks.

“I was moving out.”

“Where to?”

“Back to my old place. I don’t want to be here a second longer, there are too many memories here and they are all bad.”

“Do you want to move in with me?” he asks.

“No,” I answer without hesitation.

“The offer is always there.”

“Was I just a way to get to him?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes at his words, trying not to let them hurt me. “That is, until you weren’t.”

“I still hate you,” I say.

Whiskey’s hand rubs my leg, and it takes everything in me to not climb over him. I want him. I’ve never denied that there’s an attraction to him, even when I didn’t like him, I was attracted to him.

“That’s okay, we have time.”

“I want a divorce.” His hand pauses, then it moves again. “I also want you to kiss me.”

Whiskey stops, putting my foot gently down on the bed and turns around. My eyes open as I watch him come closer, his body hovering to the side of me.

It may be the alcohol that makes me see things, but the way he’s looking at me, it scares me. Whiskey’s staring at me the way you do at someone you love. As if he only has eyes for me. He hasn’t always looked at me like that. When did that change? How did this change?

“You’re looking at me weird,” I say to him.

“It’s because I’m seeing you differently, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.”

Before I can change my mind or push him away, his lips touch mine ever so softly. It’s as if I will break any second. A tear slips free from my eye, and I don’t understand why. But he doesn’t stop, his lips apply more pressure as they claim mine. His soft lips move, and in doing so, I open my mouth for him as he claims my tongue. He’s gentle, soft, caring, and it’s not like we haven’t kissed before. No, this is more cautious, as if he’s worried this will be our last kiss. It just may be, but I’m not ready to stop him yet.

His hands touch my face, cupping it, as he makes our kiss last. I don’t push him away. His lips are like a beautifully toxic thing, you want it, but you know you shouldn’t.

Whiskey is nothing I wanted, but everything I need.

I can’t lie to my drunken self any longer.

My feelings for Whiskey are there, even when I want to hide them and run away from them. They are there and they are full force.

Pushing him away, he stays above me, his lips wet and red from our kiss.

“You should go,” I manage to say.

“I can stay.”

My head shakes before my mouth can say yes.

“I don’t want to go,” he says, leaning down, touching my lips with another soft kiss. “But I will.” He pushes up, and when he stands, he straightens his shirt and looks down on me. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. It’s one of the reasons I could do what I did. Because I wanted you. There was never any question about that.” Whiskey turns and walks out, leaving me drunk and aroused as I lay on the bed, confused by his words.

33

Whiskey

I send her a message the following day, she doesn’t reply. When I go to the house, she isn’t there, and neither are her things.