Kane (Face-Off 2)

“You guess I will do,” I challenge.

She takes a step back from the bar and winks, her attention landing on the opposite end of the bar as people call out their drink orders. “I have to get back to work. I’ll meet you out back around three if you decide to show.”

“Oh, I’ll be there.”

After she walks away, Donovan hands me another shot of whiskey, and we toast, the glasses clinking loudly in the noisy club.

“To the women who break our hearts,” he says. Donovan has his own issues just not the same kind as me.

“And to the ones who help us forget them.”

We suck down our shots. The liquor burns my throat, but that little sting feels good. Soon enough I won’t be able to feel my face, too drunk to give a fuck about Payton and the shit she has done to me. I want to forget her—even if it is only temporary.

I wake to the sound of my alarm blowing up on my phone, having no idea where the annoying sound is coming from. Opening one eye wide, I peek at the girl next to me. Her long hair frames her cupid shaped face, and with her lying on her stomach with her ass sticking up, my dick gets hard. But I can’t stand the damn ringing. Glancing around the room, I crawl out of bed and check the nightstand, the floor littered with our clothes, and the armchair in the corner that has my pants slung over it.

I fish my phone from my jean pocket and turn off the alarm. It’s only nine a.m. and way too early for me to function after drinking myself to death. Last night was a fucking blur. We polished off the bottle of Johnnie Walker right before closing with the help of some of our teammates.

How am I not in the hospital with alcohol poisoning?

She turns on her back with her legs spread open wide and her nipples pointed at me, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “What was that noise?”

“Just my alarm, sweetheart.” I wish I could remember her name, but that part of the night is also a blur. “I have to get going. This was fun.”

As per usual, I do my stop, drop, and roll style sweep of her bedroom, gathering my clothes and putting them on so fast I almost fall over and onto her bed. Attachments are not my thing, and neither are dates or anything that could give a chick the idea I am interested in anything more than sex.

I don’t hide it. I make no promises. I have no regrets. Living this way, after what happened between Payton and me, is the only way I know how to live. Because the one regret I have is allowing her to destroy me.

I leave without getting her number, knowing I will not call even if I had it. We had a mutual understanding that this was sex and nothing more, and she doesn’t put up a fight as I walk out the door.

The glare from the sun forces me to shield my face with my arm as I scan the busy city street for my car.

Where am I?

While the streets are all similar, I’m smack dab in the middle of a block with no street signs visible from this angle. Parked in almost every spot along the one-way street, I have trouble finding the Beamer. My car stands out in a crowd with the San Marino Blue that sparkles in the sunlight.

So, where the fuck is it?

Either I am too drunk to see ten feet in front of me, or my car is nowhere in sight. Just fucking great. Stumbling down the street, I take the keys from my pocket and hit the alarm button, hoping that will help me locate my car. Nothing happens. All I can hear are the sounds of cars whooshing past me.

I remove my cell phone from my pocket and hit the speed dial for Donovan.

“This had better be good, fucker,” he says after a few rings, his voice sounding rougher than normal.

“I can’t find my car and don’t be a dick about it. I am not in the mood.”

“Are you still with the bartender?”

“No, I just left her apartment.”

“You went home with her. How could you forget, dumbass? She drove. Your car is still parked in the lot at the club.”

“Come pick me up then,” I spit back, annoyed.

“No can do. Call Uber.”

A girl laughs in the background, and now I see the source of the problem. I’m so pissed that he’s choosing a girl over me that I hang up, like a child having a temper tantrum, and kick my heel to the ground, causing myself more pain than I had intended.

“Fuck,” I yell, twisting my fingers through my hair. By the time I reach the corner, I take a seat on the curb and open the Uber app on my phone to type in the details.