Chapter 19
NINETEEN
The whiskey stares at me from the counter, daring me to come closer. Its amber color, warm and inviting, taunting me. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to reach out and feel the cool glass of the bottle’s neck against my skin. Just one drink, I tell myself. One sip to take the edge off.
Except Koen’s face won’t leave my mind, the way he looked at me two days ago on the boulevard, pity and confusion etched into his features, a judgment he didn’t have the guts to voice. The memory clings to me, replaying on an endless loop.
He watched me do their little challenges. That much is clear. And when I didn’t fall in line, when I didn’t do what they wanted, he followed me and grabbed my arm, but still without a word. Just that piercing look, his eyes narrowing as though I’d somehow failed him.
Yeah, fuck you, too, Koen.
The whiskey promises relief, whispering that it can make it stop. That it can quiet the noise, soften the edges, and dull everything that feels too sharp, too raw, too much.
I take a shaky breath and close my eyes to shut it out from view, but it doesn’t help.
You can’t drink, Nova.
Even if I feel like I’m unraveling now, puking my guts out later, thanks to Koen’s coercion will only make it worse.
I know this.
But God, I want to forget, even for a little while.
Reaching out, I brush my fingers against the glass. The craving gnaws at me. It would be so easy to give in, to let the whiskey wrap around me and pull me under, drowning out all the shit I don’t want to deal with, at least for a few minutes.
But apart from Koen’s judgment, there’s also this flicker, this stupid, fragile hope that maybe there’s something better waiting for me. A new life. A chance to be more than this.
Closing my eyes, I go to that place in my mind I’ve been visiting more and more.
The rough linen of my sundress whispers against my legs, and the faint dust of the countryside clings to my calves.
I walk down a narrow path lined with lavender bushes, letting the purple flowers brush against my fingertips, leaving their scent behind, a balm to my soul.
There’s a whisper of wind, and in that breeze, I let go of some of the weight, some of the pain.
The lavender fades, and the warmth of the Tuscan sun dissipates, reality creeping back in.
I’m still here.
Still this.
A stripper, a thief, a girl who’s clinging to fragments of herself, trying not to shatter completely.
And yet, there’s a flicker of something stubborn and relentless. A stupid, fragile spark of hope that refuses to die. Maybe it’s na?ve. Maybe it’s reckless. But it’s there, a whisper in the back of my mind telling me I can be more than this. That I can have more than this.
A life where I don’t have to wrap myself in glitter and lies to feel worthy.
A life where I’m not simply getting by but actually living.
I let my mind drift again, this time not to Tuscany but to something even more elusive. Belonging. Not just being a part of a scene, a routine, a hustle, but a real place where I fit. Where people know me, the real me, and still want me around.
For more than a few minutes, I was part of something. Even though the tasks, excluding the final one, ranged from silly to risky, and I still don’t know who was ordering them, I was included. I was part of something bigger. Something that could change things.
Then, I blew the chance to make it out of here.
However, nothing, not even a new life, will make me steal a fucking car ever again.
I can find my way out of this shit show called my life on my fucking own.
My hand grasps the neck of the bottle tightly as the battle rages in my chest, and then slowly, painfully, I let go.
Stepping back, my heart pounding, I force myself to leave it behind.
The couch greets me like an old enemy as I collapse onto it, trying to pick up where I left off before the whiskey lured me into the kitchen. MasterChef fills the room with voices and the clatter of pans, but it doesn’t drown out the noise in my head.
My hands shake as I pick up the tiny diamond pen to press another bead into its spot on the canvas. It slips free, bouncing onto the table. My trembling fingers won’t cooperate, no matter how hard I try.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the pen down. It bounces to the floor, joining the pile of beads scattered beneath the coffee table.
I lean back, my head thudding against the cushion, eyes slipping shut. The whiskey is still there. Still watching. Still calling.
Drinking may never be an option again if that was the last time I saw Koen, as he’s the only one who can take the compulsion back. Not that I’m in the mood to challenge him right now. I don’t even know where the hell any of them are.
Then there’s Hottie. It’s been two days since we had our testing date.
Probably fucked that up too.
It’s been even longer since I’ve heard from Annabelle, and it’s lonelier than I care to admit. Maybe that’s what’s clawing at me now. This stupid, pathetic loneliness.
I stripped the evening I left Koen standing in that alleyway and yesterday evening, too, while I kept my eyes open for something, someone to fill the void.
I even went so far as to turn up at Vortex, but there was nothing for me there.
Hottie wasn’t working, of course, and every other face was lacking—no spark, no thrill.
And I hate that realization more than anything.
I hate that I want him, that I’m already attached in some pathetic way.
It gives him power over me, the same way Koen has with the no-drinking rule.
Ugh!
My tits are way too nice for my life to be like this.
A tapping at the patio door pulls me out of my swirling thoughts, and I push myself up, walking over to find Good Lookin’ perched outside, her little paws pressing against the glass, demanding entrance.
I slide the door open and crouch, patting my thigh. “Where have you been, huh? And why are you here in the middle of the day?” I ask her. I was already worried after not seeing her for a few days.
She lets out a little chirping sound, a quiet reminder that someone, at least, still cares.
Padding past me, she hops onto the pink couch like she owns the place.
I sigh, leaving the door open for some fresh air, then drop onto the couch beside her.
Good Lookin’ turns and crawls into my lap, curling up and letting out a loud, rumbling purr.
I scratch behind her ears, sighing. “Guess you’re the only one who still wants to hang out with me, huh?”
She blinks at me, unconcerned, as if my entire world could crumble, and she’d still demand her ear scratches.
I oblige, my fingers moving gently, finding comfort in her small, steady presence.
The lump in my throat rises again, but I swallow it down.
The ache in my chest doesn’t go away, though, and I wonder if it ever will.
When my phone buzzes on the coffee table, it pulls me from the edge of my spiraling thoughts. I lean forward, displacing Good Lookin’ just enough that she lets out a disgruntled chirp.
My fingers close around the phone, and the screen lights up with a message from Captain Bossy.
Captain Bossy
You done sulking yet?
I huff out a laugh, sharp and bitter, my fingers trembling slightly as they hover over the keyboard. A million sarcastic replies spring to mind, but none of them feel right. My thumb hesitates, hovering, before finally typing.
Didn’t realize you cared.
I don’t. Just wondering if you’re gonna keep acting like a brat or actually be useful.
You already told me that I’m useless. Thank you very much.
Stop being dramatic. You know that’s not what I meant.
I roll my eyes, my thumbs tapping out a response before I can think better of it.
Could’ve fooled me. You’re not exactly Mr. Warm and Fuzzy, you know.
And you’re not exactly Miss Easygoing. What’s your point?
I laugh, shaking my head.
Who is this guy?
He’s probably the kind of guy who knows he’s attractive but doesn’t bother with charm because he’s too busy being an ass. I bet he doesn’t smile easily, but when he does, it’s devastating. The kind of guy who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
Or maybe I’m completely off. Maybe he’s some average dude behind a phone screen, giving me orders while he sits in his boxers eating takeout.
Whoever he is, he’s piqued my curiosity.
And that’s dangerous.
At least he’s talking to me.
My point is, you’re a jerk.
Takes one to know one.
I let out a frustrated groan, but I don’t have time to type a snarky response. Another message comes through.
Look… I’m sorry, okay?
I blink at the screen, my fingers freezing. Did he apologize?
Did someone steal your phone?
Don’t push it.
But yeah, I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.
I stare at the message, the unexpected softness in his words making something inside me loosen.
Maybe I haven’t completely fucked this up after all.
Thanks, Captain Bossy. I appreciate it.
Don’t get used to it.
You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood today.
Is this where you tell me you’re sending flowers to make up for being a jerk?
Nah, I don’t do flowers.
But I’ll let you buy me a drink when this is all over.
I smile, shaking my head.
You’re such a romantic. How can I resist?
You can’t. That’s the point.
Still smiling, I set my phone back on the table. Good Lookin’ shifts in my lap, her purring getting louder as I scratch behind her ears again. “Guess things aren’t completely hopeless,” I murmur to her, feeling a little bit lighter.
The door swings open, and I hear Annabelle’s voice before I see her.
“Babe! I brought Chinese!” I turn my head as she steps through the door, a bag of takeout in one hand and her keys jingling in the other.
She takes one look at me sprawled on the couch with Good Lookin’ in my lap, closes the door, and strides over to let herself fall beside me, the cushions bouncing. “You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks,” I drawl, my lips twitching. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”