I picked the lamp up off the bedside table and threw it across the room. It smashed with a satisfying bang on the opposite wall. Vivian didn’t even flinch.
“Happy now?” I growled, curling my hand into a fist and punching it into the wall by her head. Not hard enough to dent or to scare her. But with enough force to make myself clear.
She was sick and tired? Well I was sick and tired.
“I’m outta here,” I said suddenly, pushing myself off the wall and away from Vivian who hadn’t moved an inch.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, still clutching that stupid robe tight to her body like a damn shield.
I yanked on my jeans. I grabbed my wallet and room key and threw open the door.
I looked back at Vivian, to where she stood in the middle of the room, looking a mixture of angry, hurt, and confused.
She wasn’t the only one.
I was feeling all of those things and worse. I felt defeated.
Vivian had defeated me. She had worn me down and run me over.
I needed to get drunk.
And laid.
And not particularly in that order.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tossed over my shoulder before slamming the door behind me.
Of course I’d come back. And when I did I’d f**k her into an apology. We’d make up and all would be like it was before. We both just needed to cool down. And I needed to blow off some steam.
Then everything would be fine.
11
I thought long and hard about going out and finding someone else to take the edge off the ache in my pants. Something needed to be done before I lost my damn mind. There was only so long I could go without sex and not become certifiable and I was reaching the end of my very short shelf life.
Then I thought about Vivian, who was up in my hotel room, with honey still in her hair and probably thinking of all the ways she wanted to hurt and maim me.
Honestly, what did I owe her? She wasn’t my girlfriend. We weren’t dating. Hell, she barely tolerated me most days. Why she cared whether I was boning some other girl had always been beyond me. Just because we swapped bodily fluids didn’t give us any sort of ownership over each other.
Hunting for some strange shouldn’t bother her in the least.
Hell, she may very well be getting it on with all sorts of dudes back in Bakersville.
Hold up! I had never thought about that possibility before.
I hadn’t spent any time thinking about what Vivian’s life was like when she wasn’t with me. What if she was with someone else?
My gut twisted and lurched at the thought.
What was this emotion churning in my stomach? I felt almost nauseous.
Vivian and the faceless douche started to bounce around in my head, fading in and out like a bad acid trip.
I stood in the hallway, chewing on my thumbnail, a bad habit left over from a shitty childhood. And I obsessed. I let my mind do cartwheels around the guy I just knew Vivian was screwing during her Cole-free hours.
He was probably some stereotypical jock. Most likely a reformed frat freak with a nine to five and a great parking spot in front of his office.
I wanted to kill this unknown jerk off. His face became an amalgamation of everyone I hated. My dad, the guy who cooked meth out of his apartment three doors down from me back in Bakersville. Maybe he looked like Stu, the mailman, who always conveniently lost my new editions of Guitar World.
I took the elevator straight to the lobby and headed for the bar. It was closed of course, but I could see through the glass door that the bartender, a hot little number with bright red hair, was still inside, cleaning up.
I knocked on the glass and waved to get her attention. She made her way over and unlocked the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked, a small smile on her face. She gave me the typical once over and I knew instantly that she liked what she saw.
I thought about Vivian, who was most likely still up in my room sulking and making a voodoo doll out of my dirty socks and knew this is exactly what I needed to get my head on straight.
“I know you’re closed, but what can I do to convince you to pour me a drink or two?” I asked, leaning my hip against the jam and hooking my thumbs in my jeans pocket.
The bartender ran her hand through her hair and opened the door wider, letting me in. She closed and locked it behind me.
“Let me join you?” she asked, chewing on her plump bottom lip. I ran my hand along the back of my neck, feeling strange all of a sudden.
I hesitated inside the bar, watching as the girl went back behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of vodka and poured us a couple of shots.
She lifted her eyebrows at me, obviously wondering why I was still lingering just inside the door.
“You were the one that wanted to drink. Are you gonna sit down?” she asked, her voice was low and raspy and made me think of all sorts of naughty things.
She wore a tight black shirt and low cut jeans. She ran her tongue along her lip and watched me as I slowly approached the bar.
I sat down on a stool, grabbed the shot glass and tossed the contents back. The slight burn making me shudder. The bartender quickly refilled my glass and I just as quickly drank it.
She chuckled, a purposefully sexy sound and leaned over the bar, pressing her chest up and out for my enjoyment.
“I’m Breanne. And you’re Cole Brandt.”
I blinked in surprise. Yeah, the band was getting bigger but I had yet to experience recognition outside of our concerts and interviews.
“Uh yeah,” I said, running my thumb along my lip. Breanne poured each of us another shot.
“I saw your show last month in St. Louis. It was incredible,” she enthused, running her fingers along the back of my hand.
“I love that song you guys do. Perfect Regret. It’s amazing! And your voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard.” She was getting her fan girl all over me.
I grinned, liking the adoration. I cocked my head to the side as I regarded her. “Thanks, that’s cool of you to say.”
“Are you here for a show? Are the other guys staying here?” Breanne asked, swallowing the vodka in one long gulp. She picked up a cloth and wiped down the bar, never taking her eyes off me.
“Yeah, we played at a bar in town tonight. It was a great show,” I told her, trying to find my comfort level in this interaction. Normally I didn’t have any trouble talking up people. Girls in particular.
But tonight I was struggling.
I had a good idea of why, or more particularly who, had my brain short-circuiting.
Breanne pouted. “I wish I had known. I would totally have come to your show. What a bummer,” she said, her fingers resuming their slow, lazy trek up and down my arm.