28. Shane
28
Shane
L ana hangs around my neck as the flames flicker higher and higher, and the crowd continues growing in the backyard.
Bonfire in the city.
The music booming from the speakers rattles the old metal patio table they are planted on. The guests are boisterous and enjoying themselves, casually drinking as we stand beneath faded porch lights, a large fire at the center of our chain-link fenced yard. More people showed up than I thought would within the hour, one even bringing an old recliner to toss into the flames, but the boys appear to be having a good time. Wheeter is chatting up some redhead with legs for days, and Sigh relaxes back in a lawn chair, staring up into the stars while he shares a blunt with Rocks, another good friend of ours.
“Wanna sneak away?” Lana whispers against my neck. “I've been missing that thicky you got, baby.” Her acrylic nails trail along my belt. Needy whore. “Mmm, I've been missing it a whole lot.”
She's jacked full of Molly, simply needing a firm dick to fill the void. Rumor is she got stood up by some rapper dude from Chicago who was supposed to meet her at the tattoo shop. Ghosted and desperate, she called me immediately after discovering the party was on for tonight.
I take a quick drink of my nearly empty bottle, swallowing the bourbon straight, not even entertaining her question. It bothers me that she sauntered her ass out here in her short leather shorts and thigh-high boots with that mesh top that she might as well not even be wearing, her tits pushing through the fabric of her thin bra. I guess word travels fast when there’s shit else to do in this town.
But I’m not hosting this party for Lana or any other idiot who just wants a place to hook up or get hammered. I’m hosting this party for the sole purpose of fucking destroying Montana more than I already have.
The light in her bedroom window flicks on and reflects on the rust coating the side fence, meaning she's returned from her sweet little date with an older, more established man she can sink her teeth into, absorbing his trust fund to crawl her way back to the top. Typical gutter rat behavior.
I stare at that stream of light, knowing she’s desperately seeking her beloved, and take another pull of the bottle, swallowing more of the potent liquid until I finally finish it off. I want to numb these feelings threatening to take hold of me.
Lana smiles, gazing longingly at my throat tattoo as I toss the empty bottle into the flames. The liquor warms my insides, giving me a glimpse of that false sense of happiness just as I hear the crack of glass against the neck of the crumbling instrument. My menacing grin grows.
“She's going to be heartbroken,” Lana remarks, peering at the dark ash of the once auburn-polished cello. “You're a fucking animal for this.”
Her hand slips over my loose-fitting tank, fingers skimming down my waist to rest along my abdomen. I'd push her off, tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, but I allow her other arm to wrap around my lower back. I allow it because it’s useful right now. Even if she won't admit it, seeing me with other women irritates Montana enough to have me leaning into the facade of intimacy.
Draping an arm over Lana’s shoulder, I pull her into me just as Montana makes her much-anticipated appearance. She storms around the corner of the house, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny black track shorts and a white tank-top. Her breasts nearly spill over the top, the rest barely covering her abdomen. Her hair is tossed up in a simple, long ponytail with stick-straight pieces sticking out around her face. She’s changed clothes.
I flex my jaw, clenching my molars at the sight of her perky flesh that’s without restraint. She came barreling out here without the courtesy of even putting a bra on. I give her my best dead stare.
“Where the fuck did you put it, Shane?!”
At the drop of the name they don’t hear often, the crowd takes notice of the impending altercation, random people turning their heads to eye her. This is growing into a real scene. Perfect.
I cock my brow, playing dumb.
She looks at the people standing around, not embarrassed or fearful like I’d hoped. It’s almost as if she's cataloging each and every face, gauging reactions and memorizing them for a later date.
“Where is it?” she demands, her tone dropping.
“Put to good use,” Lana comments, turning into my chest to stifle her laugh.
A few people around us chuckle, then stop when Montana’s head snaps in their direction, her fiery gaze finding them.
Wheeter joins me at my side, looking from me to her, then at the fire. Josiah joins his side soon after, both silent as they assess the situation.
They weren't aware of what I'd done until now, but with how they're ganged up beside me, this almost appears like a team effort. Even better. Let her feel the isolation.
Montana peers down to the fire, the unrelenting rage of my past burning through the last of her future. Her lips part, and her face drains of blood. A death-like pale steals her natural beauty, siphoning her strength string by broken string. Silent moments tick by, everyone waiting on pins and needles to see what she’ll do.
She blinks up and finds my stare through the flicks of flames separating us, and it’s hard to describe the face she's making. The pain in her eyes isn't simply for the instrument alone. No, there's something else flashing there—a film of hysteria coating her fire-like irises, making them burn hotter than the flames of my rage.
The bonfire’s orange glow coats her cheeks, enough to illuminate a single tear sliding down her face as she watches it burn. Her world visibly crumbles before us all as she loses the instrument, like the death of a loved one.
Lana laughs again, and I feel the stares. The guys are waiting for a reaction from me. I’d say they were gawking in disbelief, but my behavior clearly isn't surprising to anyone. Anyone but Montana.
She looks broken, and it’s as if I'm watching her heart shatter into a thousand splinters before me. It feels like a moment that will forever change this thing between us. I’ve wounded her in a way that even her abusers haven’t. I took her soul and bled it dry. This is the kind of shit you just don't ever forget or come back from. A pain that leaves scars that new flesh can’t cover.
It's the first time I stop and wonder if I've finally done it. Was this enough to bring my restless soul peace? Or am I now finding myself deeper into a new form of despair?
Regret.
This entire party is now waiting for a reaction from me, and in the aftermath of destroying a crucial element of Montana’s future, I’m left standing here without one.