Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Nash
A comfortable heat pours over me from the fire in front of me and I give my drink a swirl before throwing it down my throat.
I’m not even sure how many people are here right now, or if I know all of them. I really don’t mind if they fuck around with my house, but if there’s so much as a footprint in a place I have not given these people access to in my yard, someone will lose their fucking life tonight.
None of these people like me, and for the most part, I don’t like them. But when a rich man throws a party and you get an invitation, do you really care if you like him? Or do you go to his house to drink and fuck on his dime?
Exactly.
I try to enjoy myself - the drinks and the cigars, at least – but I can’t get that fucking door out of my mind.
Every time that I’ve walked past that door for the past three months, it’s been closed.
The door that was never fully closed before.
Fowler and his Texan friend seem fine when I speak to them, and I haven’t seen anything online to suggest otherwise, but I can’t help but worry that he’s hurt himself.
Or that he is hurting himself. The last time I saw the beautiful face that sat behind that door, he was walking away from me, he was not okay, and it was my fault.
I’ve torn myself apart thirteen different ways for the things that I said to him that night, and I’ve wished that I could go back and do it all differently.
He finally stopped trying to call me last week, tired of being sent to voicemail.
Ignoring his calls and texts has been harder than I ever expected it to be; to see his name light up across my screen, to see his smile sitting right behind it in my favorite picture of him.
To know that answering those calls would mean putting us right back where we were.
Shoving him right back into the shame that he needed to escape from.
The shame that being mine brought him. I don’t miss people, it’s weak and pathetic.
So am I, now, because I miss every goddamn thing about that boy every second of every day.
Setting my now empty glass on the table next to me, I stand and smoothe the front of my slacks.
“You!” I shout, pointing at one of the uniform-clad staff members walking around. I’m not sure where he came from, to be honest, between catering, working the bar, or if he’s one of my regular staff. I don’t really give a shit. “Come with me.”
“Of course, sir,” he nods with his hands clasped behind his back.
I lead him through the house, stopping to give Moose a scratch behind the ear, and I take him down the main hall. We round the corner into one of the unoccupied bathrooms and he follows me inside, letting me close and lock the door behind us.
“Is there a problem with the room, sir?” He asks, moving toward the tall utility cabinet where Emmett and I found the supplies that the cleaning staff use. So he’s a regular employee, then.
“No.” Unbuckling my belt and tugging it open, I make my way to the marble counter top and lean against it. “Get over here and get on your knees.”
He looks like a deer in fucking headlights. Pulling a spray bottle of some sort of cleaner from the cabinet, he clutches it to his chest. “I’m sorry, sir?”
“I told you to get on your knees and suck my cock,” I order him.
“Mr. Montgomery, sir, I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I gripe, pulling the belt back through its buckle. “Just get the hell out of my house, then. And don’t come back. You’re fired.”
I’m losing my touch. The old me would have threatened him or convinced him it was his own damn idea to do it. Before that pretty fucking boy ruined me.
It took so much effort not to follow him out to his car and drag his ass back into my house that night.
To keep my feet planted to the ground while I watched him walk away, hurt in ways I never wanted him to be.
Ways that I never meant to hurt him; but even if it wasn’t at all the way that I intended, in the end it was what he needed.
So even if it ripped away at everything good inside of me, I had to let him go.
“Why isn’t there a fucking drink in my hand?” I shout as I leave the bathroom.
Within seconds, another vest-wearing member of staff deposits a freshly-filled glass into my hand. This one must be helping at the bar, tonight. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“It’s Allie,” she answers.
“Allie,” I echo as my hand clamps down at the back of her neck. “You’ll keep these coming for me, won’t you?”
“Yeah,” she nods, “absolutely, Mr. Montgomery. I’ll get started on another for you right now.”
I offer her a smile and a firm squeeze of my hand, winking at her as I tell her, “Smart girl.”
A soft blush rises to her cheeks and she offers me a matching smile before walking away, headed for the bar.
She’s a curvy young woman with bottle-blonde hair, the type of woman that Emmett seems fond of, and I consider for a moment sending her to his house with my regards.
She wants to fuck me; maybe a man who’s been fucked by me would be a close second.
She keeps her word, bringing me drink after drink until the room becomes hazy and the tip of my nose develops a warm tingle.
I can’t bring to mind the last time that I’ve been properly drunk.
I always have a casual drink, maybe two, but not often any more than that.
I like the taste, but I’m not a person who enjoys being drunk or out of control of his faculties.
I’ve seen hundreds – maybe thousands – of people drunkenly stumbling, vomiting and otherwise making idiots of themselves over the years.
I have no interest in becoming one of them.
And yet, tonight, I am one of them.
“Mr. Montgomery,” Allie greets me with another glass in her hand, “my shift is over. I can stay, if you’d like me to, but…”
“Go home, sweetheart,” I tell her. “Thank you for your help tonight.”
“Of course,” she nods, her expression trained into neutrality despite the surprise that she blinks away. “Goodnight.”
“Moose!” I call out as she leaves me, and my doberman appears at my side moments later. “Come.”
Taking hold of his collar, I lead him up the stairs with me and into my bedroom. The dog makes a beeline for his crate, but as I drop onto my mattress, setting my glass down onto the bedside table, I whistle for him and pat the space next to me.
He questions the command only for a moment before leaping onto the bed and curling up against the cushion of the duvet.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open my contacts, once again scrolling down to Emmett’s name. Once again, my thumb hovers over the button to dial him. And like I always do every time that I consider calling him back, I turn off the phone and drop it next to me.
·
I can’t remember the last time that I was actually hungover; I don’t know if I really drank that much or if I’m just getting too damn old to have parties like that, but I didn’t get out of bed until well after three today.
I trudge through my house in my underwear, passing by staff members working to clean up the mess from last night.
There are empty glasses and filthy plates all over the place, a few stains on the walls which I can’t determine to be blood, wine or food, and various clothing pieces are strewn across the floors.
Moose follows closely behind me like he always does while I make my way to the kitchen. “Someone get in here and either make some fucking food or order me some fucking food,” I holler to no one in particular. I don’t know who’s who and I don’t plan to figure it out any time soon.
“Mr. Montgomery,” one of them says as she flies into the kitchen, “I can call ahead and pick something up for you if you’d like. It might be faster than delivery.”
“I don’t give a shit how you do it, just do it,” I tell her, scrubbing my fingers across my forehead.
“Yes sir,” she says with a bow of her head before bolting out of the house.
“And you,” I say, pointing to another staff member, “get my phone for me while I wait for her.”
He offers a nod, disappearing from the room only to return a few minutes later, setting my phone gently on the counter in front of me before returning to his task. I think he’s on wall-scrubbing duty. I don’t know or care how they divvy their roles up right now.
I scroll through my phone, checking emails and text messages, ignoring anything labeled with Emmett’s name.
It’s been three months. Whatever existed between us simply doesn’t anymore. I should be fine with that. I let him go physically; now it’s time to do that mentally, too.
“I’m sorry it took so long, sir,” the woman who went to get food says. I check the time, it’s only been twenty-something minutes since she left. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”
She sets out the spread that she picked up for me; some sort of cinnamon roll, a stack of waffles and...tacos?
“Th—at’s all, you’re dismissed,” I say, stopping myself from thanking her.
Fucking kid broke me.