7
My phone buzzes, vibrating somewhere in this Goddamn room. Fuck knows where I left that shit. I slink toward the bar in search of more liquor. My phone lays on the soft plush bar mat. Zain's number flickers across the screen. I scrub my hands over my face as if that'll cure my problems.
“What's up, man?” I answer, clearly hungover as shit and slightly
annoyed.
“You sound like death,” he says flatly.
I raid the mahogany cupboards for something. Anything. I spot an unopened bottle of red. Not my first choice, but it'll do the trick. If I have to be around Mortensen, I might as well piss him off in the process. I live to disappoint.
“Thanks, I feel it,” I deadpan. I uncork the bottle and take a swig. I stagger back toward the couch. I prop my feet on the eagle winged coffee table.
He scoffs. “You are a fuckin’ mess.”
“Fuck you,” I retort.
I lift the bottle to my lips. The tart flavor lingers on my tongue.
“You gonna come back?” he asks. Being a third wheel isn’t my style, but I can't stay here. I’ll go fucking insane. My hand grips the bottle head. I pause. “Eventually. Nyla has some shit for me. Might head over to Val’s parents.”
He chuffs. “You realize you don’t have to drug the bitch to fuck her,” he relays.
I let out a cynical laugh, polish off the wine, and chuck the bottle at the wall.
The glass splinters, shattering in a million damn pieces.
I've made peace with the way I am. I don't need constant reminders from Zain of all people.
“Yeah, man, whatever,” I mutter before hanging up on him.