Temptation [h.s.] ✔

Chapter 36.

                I push off from the table and yank open the cupboard that holds my alcohol. I drag out the bottle of vodka and pour some in a short glass. I throw it back without thinking. The hot burn of the spirit sliding down my throat is better than the burn of my realization.

        The burn of alcohol will always be better than the burn of a maybe-love.

        Alcohol doesn't hurt half as much as love. And the pounding head alcohol will give you is fixed with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenols.

        If only Tylenol worked on the heart, too. They'd make a mint.

        The glass clanks on the counter as I put it down. The vodka settles into a warm ball in my lower stomach. Shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit!

        I kick the cupboard shut and look at the clock for the first time since leaving the studio. At least I lasted most of the shoot. That's better than running at the first glance.

        Ha. Running. I'm good at running. So much so that I should live in my fucking sneakers.

        I pour another drink and drink it as quickly as the last. Shit. What if I am falling in love? What kind of fucked-up bullshit would that make our relationship? It certainly wouldn't be a fairytale.

        It would be nothing close to a fairytale. Not even good ol' Walt could spin it into a Disneyesque happy ending.

        Another clank of the glass against the side and I storm into the bathroom. I turn the shower on—full heat and full power—and strip off. I step beneath the burning flow of water and let it wash over me as it almost scalds my skin.

        Like it can wash away what I feel inside, on the outside.

        Like the red-hot sting can seep into my skin and burn through the clusterfuck of emotion I don't want to feel.

        Because, god fuckin' dammit, I don't want to fall in love with him. I don't want to feel the way I do because of real emotion. Unmanageable feelings.

        But I do. I want this sickening feeling in my stomach to be because I'm falling for my twat, as he calls himself. I want it to be because my heart and soul are in agreement and there's nothing they want more than him.

        Just him.

        Mostly, I wish I didn't feel a thing.

        Love or addiction, it doesn't matter. It still fucking hurts.

        I kill the water without washing my hair or soaping my body and wrap myself in a towel.

        Feeling no calmer than before, I walk into my room and pull on some underwear and some shorts. Then I roughly tug a tank over my head.

        My temples are throbbing. Pounding. It's almost painful, and I rub the towel across it. I grab my brush and yank it through my hair. Every movement shows the unending conflict and pain inside me.

        I throw the towel to the floor and walk out into the front room. Angus is whining at the door, so I open it and let him out. He'll just jump out the open window in the lobby.

        The door slams too harshly, but no sooner have I closed it than it opens again.

        I spin at the same time that I'm grabbed and slammed into the door. Lips cover mine harshly, the feel of fingers digging into my biceps painful and sweet at the same time.