Torn Apart (Torn and Bound Duet 1)

“Not my home,” I murmur. “Her.”

I close my eyes and fight the tears that are threatening to spill. He knows the way she’s treated me over the years, the effects her treatment has had on me. He knows why I ran and why the last thing I want to do is come home. Yet here he is, trying to guilt me into coming home for her.

“Mia, she doesn’t mean—”

“No!” I bark out. “Don’t you dare tell me she doesn’t mean to do the shit she does. That’s a lie and you know it. You want to stay with her, fine, but don’t ever try to defend everything she’s done to me. You offered to pay for my apartment and now she’s threatening to take it away. This always happens.”

“I’m sorry.” He sighs.

“Yeah, you’re always sorry.” The tears escape and race down my cheeks. “I need to go.”

“Mia, please.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be there,” I say, then hang up the phone. It immediately rings, and I switch it to silent, done with this conversation.

Needing to momentarily forget everything, I grab a bottle of liquor from my kitchen cabinet Ashton left here one night, and without bothering to grab a glass, twist the lid off and take a large gulp. I relish the burn of the alcohol as it slides down my throat, coating my belly and mind at the same time.

“Alexa, play my music,” I yell, needing to escape for a little while. A second later, the music begins to play over the speaker. Song after song, I dance around my apartment, drinking and getting lost in the lyrics. When the bottle is empty, I find another one in the freezer and get started on that one.

I have no idea how long I’m drinking and dancing for, but when there’s a knock on my door, I assume it’s Ashton—since he’s pretty much my only real friend—and swing it open, ready to welcome him to my drunken pity party.

Only standing on the other side of the door isn’t Ashton…

“Well, if it isn’t dude bro Brayden,” I say, then snort at my own joke.

Brayden’s brows shoot up to his forehead. “Are you drunk?”

“Why?” I purr. “You planning to take advantage of me?” I grab his hand and pull him inside.

“No.” He extends his hand that’s holding a cup of Starbucks coffee. “I thought you bailed on our tutoring session, so I came here to bribe you not to.”

Shit, our tutoring session.

“Nope, didn’t bail. Just drunk.” I pluck the coffee cup out of his hand and drop it onto the counter. “Dance with me.”

I wrap my arms around Brayden’s muscular shoulders and sway my body against his. When he stays frozen in place, I use him like a stripper pole, grinding my body against his. When I twirl around, my ass rubbing against his crotch, he grips the curves of my hips and pulls me close to him until my back is flush against his front.

“I really think you should drink that coffee,” he murmurs into my ear.

“And I really think you should pull that stick out of your ass and dance with me.”

He chuckles. “Fine.”

His hands land on my hips and then glide up my sides, causing a shiver to race up my spine. He twists me back to face him and holds me close. Our eyes lock, and our faces come together, so close… too close. The music is fast-paced, but our bodies are swaying to their own beat. His gaze drops to my mouth and instinctually, I lick my lips, assuming we’re going to kiss. But instead he shakes his head. “When we kiss, it won’t be when you’re drunk and can blame it on the alcohol.”

My thoughts go back to my drunken kiss with Ashton the other night. Is that what he’s going to do? Blame it on the alcohol? My stomach tightens at the thought. I don’t care how drunk we were, I could never regret that kiss.

“When we kiss, you’ll be sober,” Brayden states, bringing me back to the here and now.

“Who says I would want to kiss you when I’m sober?” I jibe. “The last time I checked I didn’t even like you when I’m sober.”

“We’ll see about that,” Brayden challenges.

He twirls me around and suddenly everything around me is spinning like a tilt-a-whirl at the fair. The floor feels like it’s going to swallow me up. I trip over my feet, prepared to hit the ground. But before that happens, Brayden tightens his hold on me.

“I got you,” he says, walking me over to the couch.

Once I’m seated, he grabs the coffee he brought over and hands it to me. “Drink this.”

He turns down the music, then disappears into my kitchen. A minute later, he returns and sits next to me. “Take these.” He hands me two pain relievers, and I swallow them both, chasing them with the iced coffee. It feels good in my belly, as if it’s extinguishing the burn left by the alcohol.