Chapter 48 #3
“So, I guess I’m just for everybody, huh?
” My voice was quiet, and I was no longer passing my words through a filter on account of the liquor starting to take effect in my system.
Josiah’s smile faded, his eyes widening at my interpretation of his behavior.
“Just some cheap Miami jumpoff, caught within some strange gray area between respectable and whore. I have a boyfriend, I say. It doesn’t matter, you essentially reply.
” I laughed humorlessly, whispering, “What do you take me for?”
He rushed into an excuse. “I didn’t mean to disrespect—”
“What is it about me?” I asked, interrupting him.
My alcohol-induced brashness was unrelenting, my insecurities emerging prominently.
“Is it etched into my body with invisible ink? Or do I just give off some unseen vibe now? Do I look like I get down like that? You’re at work, man.
Where’s your sense of professionalism? Am I not good enough to get some semblance of decency?
Why do men think they can just have me? I’m a person, not a toy. You can’t have me…”
Memories of Rashad on my back, pushing me into the softness of his mattress, using my body as if it were disposable, flashed in broken segments through my mind.
The three week-old memory was just as vivid as if it occurred yesterday.
I closed my eyes hard, bringing my hands to my head as the room began to spin.
Tears slipped out from the tight shut of my eyelids.
“Look.” I could feel Josiah drawing back, creating some distance. “That Hennessy is clearly creeping in on you. It’s really not that deep, I was just trying to have a conversation.”
Men always mistake the youthfulness of my features for naiveté. Like I don’t know lust when I see it. Like I don’t know what it looks like when a man looks at you like you’re only good for one thing. Men are so gross, so insufferable. Trash, they’re trash.
“Here’s a glass of water. Drink it, and sober up some, ma.”
I hopped off the bar stool I was seated on, wiping at my cheeks. Without taking the glass of water offered, I slipped into a crowd of dancing partygoers, my eyes scanning the crowd for Rashad. I was ready to go home.
It didn’t take long for me to find his ultra fair-skinned complexion in the sea of black and brown bodies on the floor, dancing with some red bodycon-clad stranger.
He danced with all his energy, beads of sweat forming at his hair line and clumping together the sandy brown curls that hung over his forehead.
I cut in between them, my balance a little wobbly when I turned to face my boyfriend.
“Shad, I want to go home,” I shouted over the music.
He was still dancing, half listening to me in his drunken, adrenaline-boosted state. His response came so slow that for a second, I thought he might be ignoring me.
“We just got here.” There was no room for negotiation in his dismissive delivery, in the way his hand wrapped around my shoulder and moved me out of the way so he could continue to dance with his new friend.
“I want to go home!” I screamed even louder, briefly calling the attention of some of the people that surrounded us.
I was ready to make a scene as the alcohol within me cut away my self-control.
Rashad turned to face me, expression set in a irritated scowl, his eyes bouncing about over my head, no doubt meeting the stares of onlookers.
“So go, Lauren.” He nodded for me to get gone. “I’m staying, though. I paid big money to be at this party.”
Rashad’s wild eyes stared into me, willing me to make myself scarce so he could freely enjoy himself.
Clearly I was killing his vibe, and he really wanted me to leave.
The fact that it was my birthday seemed to mean nothing to him as he turned his attention away from me, getting right back to the good time he was trying to have.
I didn’t know if the alcohol was making me emotional, but I felt pins and needles in the backs of my eyes.
Usually, it didn’t bother me when Rashad behaved this way.
As my sister Morgan had stated many nights before, I didn’t even like Rashad, so him treating me like this didn’t exactly break my heart.
However, the liquor coursing through my system made it much harder to keep myself together like I usually did.
I wasn’t crying because Rashad was treating me poorly.
I was crying because this was my life now.
I was crying because I already knew that when Rashad texted me whatever five hundred-word apology letter about his behavior tomorrow, I was going to just accept it.
And then the cycle would begin again—Rashad ripping into my self-worth, and me taking him back every time because neither of us could do any better.
Tucked away in an empty hallway of the nightclub, I leaned back against a wall, willing the space around me to stop spinning.
Even though I was standing still on solid ground, I somehow felt the nausea of motion sickness.
I couldn’t find my purse, and in my dizzying state, I couldn’t seem to retrace my steps for where I might’ve set it down.
My phone was in my purse, leaving me unable to call myself an Uber back home.
I tried to take control of my breathing, walking in zig-zags along a dimly lit corridor, looking for an exit. Every odd second, I swallowed back a dry heave, trying to keep the hot rumbling in my stomach from climbing up my throat.
Hennessy—never again.
I reached the end of the hallway, finding not a door, but a black metal spiral staircase.
Knowing I didn’t want to walk back to the sea of people I’d rushed away from in the main club, I grabbed hold of the cold iron railing.
I followed each rising step up to a solid black door, and I twisted the handle once, hoping it would lead to some sort of fire escape.
It was locked.
With a disappointed sigh, I pressed my forehead onto the metal door, banging my head against the surface softly while inwardly coaching my drunk ass on how I was going to safely make it down those stairs, make my way through the dense crowd, and leave through the front entrance.
Drawing in a preparatory breath, I eased myself straight, using the closed entryway in front of me as support, and released a calming exhale.
An audible click resonated from the door, the sound of unlocking.
There was barely enough time to register what was happening, especially not when my liquored up condition made the world around me move discontinuously.
The door disappeared from under my hands.
My feet remained planted where they were, as the door in front of me swung inward, and it felt like everything in me dropped when the person at the other end came into view.
Kain.
Kain Tariq Montgomery.
Sixteen months later.
Unconsciously, I took two shaky steps back, seemingly forgetting that behind me was a winding staircase and a long way down. Just before my third step, his hand came up automatically, catching me at my waist before I could even begin to fall backward.
Neither of us said anything as I stood there, dumbfounded by the gravity of being in his presence for the first time in over a year.
Wordlessly, he pulled me away from the staircase’s edge, his hand slipping from my side.
I was too drunk to focus on the intricate details about him that had changed, but not drunk enough to have missed the fact that several things about his appearance were different now.
One thing remained constant, however.
As always, Kain was a fortress when he wanted to be, giving away nothing in terms of facial expression or readable emotions. Sure, he was looking at me, but nothing in his face gave away even a hint of what he might’ve been thinking.
For the umpteenth time that night, the hot rumbling of nausea climbed up my digestive system again.
Caught up within the unexpectedness of standing before Kain Montgomery, of all people, I was slow to swallow it down.
Halfway up my throat, there was nothing I could do to stop the eight shots I’d forced down that night from coming back up.
All over Kain Montgomery’s crisp, white dress shirt.