30. Paxton
30
PAXTON
Y ou’d think with all the money I have, I’d be able to enjoy my own party without putting out fires. Literally. Someone tried to light a firework in the kitchen. They probably thought this was a Harden party. Hell, maybe Hawke or Ford bribed them to do it, just to be dicks.
I wouldn’t put it past them.
As I stride into the main room, I find a group of guys huddled around something. What the hell? Straightening my spine, I peer over their heads. A half-naked Tatum is standing on a coffee table in the center of the room. With her back arched, she twerks an inch from some asshole’s face, and he reaches up, palming her backside. Rage sparks at the image, and my long legs close the distance before I stop short, recognizing Roman at the edge of the show.
“What’s she doing?” I growl.
Roman barely casts me a glance, choosing to stare at a half-naked Tatum dancing on the coffee table instead as he strokes his chin. “Dancing? I guess?” he offers dryly. “Apparently, she’s done with the body shots.”
“Body shots?” I repeat. My blood boils as the words roll off my tongue.
He gives me the side-eye, warning, “You might want to stay away from tonight’s video footage.”
“Fucking hell.” Shoving my way through the throng of lust-thirsty men surrounding the coffee table, I order, “Tatum, get your ass down here.”
Her eyes are glassy and unfocused as she looks down at me and grins, biting her bottom lip. “You’re sexy when you’re bossy, Pax.”
“Get down here,” I repeat, my tone as sharp as before.
With a slow shake of her head, she runs her hands along her curves and sways her hips from side to side, looking like a fucking porn star in the dress I gave her.
I’m gonna kill her.
My glare deepens. “Everyone out!” I yell. “Now!”
“Aw, come on,” Tatum pouts. “You wanted me to party, remember?” She tilts her head back, her long, dark hair falling over her face as her red lips part. “Now I’m partying.”
No, now, she’s spiraling.
“Roman!” I bellow.
My friend calls to someone else before the music cuts off like a scene in an old chick flick. One by one, Roman ushers people from the house as Tatum glares down at me from the coffee table. “I wasn’t finished?—”
“Get off the table, Tatum.”
“Or what? What you gonna do? Tell my boss? You. Don’t. Own. Me.”
She loses her balance, tumbling to the side. I wrap my arms around her waist and tug her into me while losing my own balance in the process. With a thump, she lands on top of me as my ass hits the ground.
Fuck, that hurt.
Ignoring the twinge in my tailbone, I grumble, “Shit, you okay?”
Her head rolls to the side, and her eyelids flutter closed. “I think…I think I’m going to puke.”
Grabbing the back of her neck, I pull her to the side and slide out from under her, wrapping her hair into a loose knot around my fingers in case she vomits. By some miracle, she holds it in, though I doubt she’ll be able to keep it down for long. How much did this girl have to drink? I recount everything I did since she raced down the stairs, disappearing from my line of sight. Despite taking Tatum’s side in the drink spill event, the woman Tatum ran into is a friend of a friend with some pretty strong connections in the music industry and pissing her off wasn’t on my to-do list for the evening. After tracking her down and apologizing, I ran into Roman and we talked before a shady guy in a dark suit asked to chat with him. Yeah, that didn’t set off any warning bells at all. Now, here I am, holding a drunk off her ass Tatum. It’s been what? An hour? She got this shit-faced in one fucking hour?
Gently, I cradle her to my chest and carry her to the nearest bathroom. She lowers her head to me, burrowing into the crook of my neck, and reminding me of a little kid. When she lets out a few slow, controlled breaths, the scent of alcohol punches me in the face, confirming what I already assumed.
She’s definitely gonna puke.
“Come on, beautiful.” I lower her to her feet and touch both sides of her face in an attempt to get an actual read on her. Her skin is hot and clammy and her eyes are unfocused and glazed. Fuck, do I take her to the hospital to get her stomach pumped? Seriously, how much has she had to drink?
“Look at me, Tate,” I order.
She shakes her head.
“Tatum, look at me.”
“I think I’m gonna—” Like a bag of bricks, she collapses onto the tile floor and hunches over the bowl, vomiting her guts out. I pull her hair back just in time as she expels so much fucking liquid, I’m surprised the toilet doesn’t overflow. My nose wrinkles at the putrid scent, but I rub her back with my opposite hand, making sure her hair stays as far away from the toilet as possible. “That’s it, Birthday Girl. Get it all out.”
Another heave wracks her body as she clutches the porcelain seat. Once she’s finished, a sob breaks past her lips. Then another, and another, fucking obliterating the organ in my chest in the process.
What the hell happened?
My mind races, trying to put the pieces together, to sort out what might have triggered her to have this reaction, but I’m lost. Mascara streaks down her face as she squeezes her eyes shut, her hair falling in her face and hiding her twisted expression.
“Hey,” I coo. The cold tile seeps through my jeans as I shift onto my ass and touch her shoulders. “Hey, come here.”
Without protest, she burrows into my chest. Clinging to me like I’m a lifeline, her fingers twist in the black fabric of my T-shirt while she shatters into a million pieces. It makes me want to kill someone. Kill whoever hurt her. Whoever made her break like this.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“It’ll never be okay,” she cries. “None of this will be. Not ever.”
What the hell?
“Sh…,” I coo, unsure what else I can say as my mind reels. “Sh… I got you. I got you, baby.”
Another sob wracks through her, and my grip constricts around her tiny frame. I need to calm down, but all I see is red, and it takes everything inside of me to keep from grabbing her face and forcing her to tell me who hurt her before promising retribution. Because I can’t. Not right now. Not when it isn’t what she needs.
Forcing my muscles to relax, I drop a kiss to the top of her head and stay on the ground, rocking us both on the cold tile. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until slowly, her sobs fade into cries, and her cries fade to whimpers and tiny hiccups of grief. I don’t know how long it takes. Whether it’s seconds or minutes or hours. My butt is numb, though. And my arms ache from holding her limp body against me. Even then, I wouldn’t move for the world. Not until she’s ready.
Pulling away from me, Tatum wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, refusing to look at me as she lunges toward the bowl again, puking like before.
I climb to my knees and hold her hair away from her face. Vomit splatters along the back of the toilet and on the seat, making my stomach squirm on instinct, but I ignore it, focusing on the silky tendrils of hair in my hands and the flowery scent of shampoo clinging to it. Once she’s finished, she slurs, “S-sorry.”
Oh, Birthday Girl.
I’m the one who’s sorry. We’ve all been here, and I don’t envy her next twenty-four hours, that’s for sure. The question is, why? She was fine in the hallway. A little prickly, maybe, but fine.
Who was calling her?
The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice it aloud. Instead, I reach for the hand towel and bring it to Tatum’s face. After wiping her mouth, I carefully urge her to look at me. My grasp on her hair stays firmly in place while I take in every micro expression and minute detail of her pretty face. Maybe I should have her stomach pumped. Or maybe she got everything out of her system? She puked a lot. Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve been to parties before. Saw people shit themselves. Wake up in their own urine and vomit. I’ve witnessed the repercussions that come with substance abuse. But none of them were Tatum Taylor. And none of them scared the shit out of me like Tatum is right now.
Concern weaves itself through me as a crease forms between my brows. Mascara runs down her face, making her look like a broken Barbie, but just as beautiful. “You sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“S-so sorry,” she repeats, her words as jumbled as before.
“Don’t apologize,” I murmur.
“How can I not?” She laughs. “I’m supposed to be working?—”
“We both know I didn’t hire you to work tonight.”
She sobers and leans against my touch. “Still sorry. I’m a…I’m a mess.”
“You’re not a?—”
“Thanks for staying. I know I…I know I just puked everywhere, and…most guys wouldn’t stay, so.”
I chuckle softly, unwrap her hair from my hand, and push it away from her face. “Not going anywhere, Tate.”
With a slow shake of her head, she argues, “Arch wasn’t going anywhere, either.”
My body goes rigid, and I tilt my head. “Arch?”
“Archer Buchanan,” she explains. “My sister’s ex, her boyfriend’s twin, and also his, uh, his s-savior.” Her chest caves, and her chin falls to her chest.
This is the third time I’ve heard his name. Once in the hotel when she called him her fiance. Once at the bonfire when she warned me not to utter it ever again. And once at the bar with Dodger. But even then, no one called him a savior.
Well aware I’m walking in a minefield, I murmur, “Savior? What do you mean?”
“Car accident. Brain dead on impact, or so they say.” She wipes at her eyes, smearing her smoky mascara even more, though I doubt she gives a shit.
At least it confirms Dodger’s story.
“Fuck, Tate,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”
“He was a donor,” she continues, as if now that the dam is broken, there’s nothing holding her back from spilling each and every deep, dark secret she’s been holding in for as long as I’ve known her. “And who was at the top of the transplant list? His Mother. Fucking. Twin.” She bites her lip and shakes her head, riding the line between looking like someone who might break down and sob again and someone who might commit murder. “Do you know how tired I am of feeling pissed about it? That I can’t even be in the same room with them, let alone look them in the eye and con-congratulate them?” Her nose scrunches into a sneer. Like there’s a putrid scent clinging to the room, and she’s the only one who can smell it.
“Congratulate them?” I prod.
“They’re getting married,” she mutters. “Fucking. Married.”
Married? Who’s getting married? I have a thousand questions. The girl’s talking in broken riddles, but the idea of overwhelming her feels about as productive as handing the girl another shot.
“Who?” I ask, carefully.
“My sister and Mav.” She drags her knees to her chest and leans her back against the bathroom wall. “It’s despicable.”
“Marriage in general, or theirs?” I ask in an attempt to lighten the mood or some shit. I don’t know? I don’t know what I’m doing or why she’s telling me this, but I’m grateful. Grateful she has someone when she’s clearly spiraling.
“Theirs,” she clarifies. “I hate them for it. For being happy. For moving on.” A laugh escapes her. “God, that makes me sound like such a bitch. She’s my sister. I should be happy for her, but…God, I hate her for it,” she repeats. Her tone is so thick with resentment, I swear she might choke on it.
And that’s what guts me.
The resentment. The way I can feel it eating her alive. She hides it well. Clearly. She’s been hiding it for years. But it’s still there. Hidden beneath the confidence and I-don’t-give-two-fucks persona she wears like armor. Because she does care. So much so, it’s killing her. The realization hits too close to home, bringing memories of my mom with it. The alcohol. The pain meds. The jumbled, nonsensical ramblings of a bitter woman in pain.
I shouldn’t have left her.
I shouldn’t have been forced to stay and take care of her.
They were her actions. I know this. But seeing the pain in Tatum’s? I don’t want to walk away. I don’t want to leave. And what the hell does that say about me?
“I’m such a bitch,” she breathes out.
“You’re not a bitch.” I move toward her and press my back to the wall beside her, resting my forearm on my bent knee. “Just a sad, beautiful, lonely girl.”
She drops her head back and stares at the ceiling. “You’re nothing like him, you know,” she slurs. Her eyes are half-hooded as she rolls her skull toward me. “Or maybe you are.” Another laugh escapes her. “Maybe you’re exactly like him, and that’s why I couldn’t say no. Why I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Her laughter quiets as she peers at me, taking me in the same way I am her. Moisture from her earlier tears still clings to her lashes, making her the most beautiful—and broken—woman I’ve ever seen. “Or maybe you’re nothing like him,” she decides. “Maybe no one will ever be like him.” A divot forms between her brows. “Honestly, I’m not sure what’s worse.”
Neither am I. She clearly loves him. Has always loved him, if I had to guess. And competing with a dead guy? Call me a selfish prick, but I want to. I want to compete. I want to erase the pain in her eyes. The tremor in her voice. I want to erase all of it, if only to stop her from hurting like she clearly is right now.
“What was he…” I swallow. “What was he like?”
“Kind.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “Like you. Sweet, too.” I catch her eyelids fluttering in the mirror’s reflection across from us. “He always saw what others didn’t, you know? Even noticed a wallflower like me.” Her mouth lifts, but her eyes stay closed. “I used to be a wallflower, you know.”
“A wallflower, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I can’t picture it,” I admit wryly.
“Of course you can’t.” Her laugh is as broken as she is. “Want to know why?”
“Why?”
She sniffs. “Because after he died, I learned it was easier to be a bitch and force people to look at you instead of blending in and disappearing altogether. Because the one thing worse than being hated?” Her voice cracks, and I can feel her getting worked up again. The tightness in her body. The uneven breaths. The dampness seeping into my shirt. But it’s strange. Because even though I’d give anything to dry her tears, part of me wonders if she’s been holding them in so long, they’ve turned to poison, and if she doesn’t let them out, if she doesn’t let this go, it’ll kill her. I should know. I’ve seen it firsthand.
“What’s worse than being hated, Birthday Girl?” I whisper.
“It’s being forgotten.” Her bottom lip quivers. “Everyone’s forgetting him, Pax. They might not admit it, but they are. And that’s the worst part of it all. Ophelia’s marrying Maverick. She doesn’t care that he’s dead. That without him, Maverick would be gone.” She crumbles even more. “I hate her, Pax. I hate Ophelia for what she did. It isn’t fair how she gets her happily ever after and Arch gets…gets nothing. Not one fucking thing but an early grave.” Looking up at me, her eyes red and raw, she whispers, “I don’t want an early grave.”
“Sh…” I shake my head as my own fear clogs my throat. “Don’t say shit like that. I’m begging you.”
She snuggles into me, her body sagging. “Thank you for keeping your promise.”
My brows tug as I try to keep up with Tatum’s spiraling thoughts. “What promise, Birthday Girl?”
“For quitting smoking.” She licks her lips. “I’m not…I’m not sure I could survive another death.”
The organ in my chest cracks. Lifting my arm, I wrap it around Tatum’s shoulders. “That won’t happen.”
“Fate hates me, so I wouldn’t sound so sure.”
“No one could hate you,” I murmur. “Even fate.” I tug her closer. “Maybe it just has…a different plan.”
“Fuck plans.” She sniffs again. “Fuck plans and fuck fate and fuck Archer and fuck…fuck this stupid feeling.” She claws at her chest. “I keep waiting for it to go away. For it to get better.” She sucks in a shallow breath. “Why isn’t it getting better? It isn’t…it isn’t fair.”
I close my eyes, desperate to fix this. To find the words to take her pain away. But the truth is…there aren’t any.
“You’re right,” I rasp. “It isn’t fair. None of it is.”
“You don’t get it?—”
“Maybe, I don’t,” I lie. “Not exactly. But I might have a pretty good idea, Birthday Girl.” I rub my hand along her back, deciding, “But that’s a story for a different day. I read your favorite book. The Count of Monte Cristo .” Her quiet sniffle guts me, proving she’s still awake, but her sobs are slowing, so I keep talking. “I liked it. I liked it a lot. And you’re right. It’s better than the movie.”
“Told you,” she whispers.
I smile before sobering. “Gotta say, though. I can’t imagine carrying such a big weight around, you know? The hate. The need for revenge over anything and everything else in his life. Isn’t it exhausting?” I rub my hand up and down her bare arm. “I bet it’s exhausting, Birthday Girl.”
“It is,” she breathes out. The words are so quiet, I’m not convinced I hear them. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was Archer’s ghost. But I’m not sure it matters, either. Because even if she’s too stubborn to admit the truth, I know I’m right. Carrying around her frustration and pain and hurt is exhausting, and it’s slowly killing the girl beside me, even if she refuses to admit it.
“You know what I wonder, Birthday Girl?” I continue. “I wonder if maybe…maybe the point of the count’s journey was to let go of his resentment so he could finally…I don’t know. Maybe he could move on and be happy with Mercedes.”
Her head does the tiniest of bobs, but it’s enough. Enough to give me hope that she’s hearing me. That she agrees. That maybe, just maybe, she can learn a thing or two from the count’s mistakes.
“Where’s Rory?” she whispers.
“I dunno. I think she went home.”
Her head bobs softly. “I was a bitch. I mean, I’m always a bitch, but I was an even bigger bitch than usual, and…”
“She’ll be okay, Tate.”
Tatum licks her lips. “What if she leaves me?”
“Rory’s not gonna leave you.”
The sheen in her eyes makes them brighter, somehow, and the sight cuts straight through my chest. “And what about you?” she whispers. “You gonna leave, too?”
Her words are lazy, but just as slurred, though I have a feeling it has more to do with exhaustion than the alcohol left in her system. I hesitate, taking in our reflection as silence envelops the bathroom. She looks…so much younger like this. Her makeup is stripped from her. Her guard is down. It gives me a glimpse of the Tatum she keeps locked away. She looks more vulnerable, too. And broken. So fucking broken. I want to give her the world. Want to tell her she has nothing to be scared of. Nothing to fear.
You gonna leave me, too?
Her quiet snores reverberate through my chest as she falls asleep against me, and I drop a kiss to the crown of her head. “Not a chance, Tatum.”