ADDICTED

16

LEAH

I'd almost said yes.

James would have been a good tour guide, considering he'd lived here for so long. Then again, it didn't seem like he spent much time enjoying himself.

Since I no longer trusted him, I figured some time alone out in the big city would be best. I realized that any silly feelings I might have felt for James were of a false pretense.

He cared for no one but himself. Hence, why he brought me on this damned trip to begin with.

As I waltzed out onto the street, my wedges heavy under my feet, I was stumped with wonder and fear.

I didn't know a thing about New York. There were so many streets and people and lights.

I clutched my purse to my side and lifted my chin. Who cared if I knew nothing? I just wanted to see a sliver of this place and enjoy myself. I wanted to forget what happened today.

My leisure strolling led me several blocks. I turned a few times and made sure to remember buildings for landmarks.

Typically, I was good with directions. It had been a while since I'd gone out and had a drink, though. I couldn't let myself get carried away any more. The lifestyle I had led when I drank carelessly had led me down many dark roads, including some with Jarrod.

I ignored the chill down my spine at the sudden feeling of being watched.

Don't be absurd. He's dead.

I was in a city where no one knew me. There was nothing to be paranoid about.

Just to reinforce that fact, I darted into the next bar I came across.

It was an Irish pub filled with smoke, humid body heat, and rowdy laughter. Hockey and soccer matches played on the flat screens mounted around the wood-paneled space.

I slipped my way to a corner stool at the bar and grabbed a drink menu. After deciding on a coffee stout, I let myself relax. I checked out the room, the people, and the ambiance.

The place was loud but dark. A perfect hiding spot for me.

What was I even hiding from?

"What'll it be?" asked a masculine voice.

I looked up. A man around my age with dark eyes and loose dark hair watched me from the other side of the bar top. He was wearing a yellow Rugby jersey and looked brawny enough to probably play the sport as well.

"A pint of that coffee stout on tap, please!" I said, half-yelling over the pub din.

"Right up, lady." He whirled off to get a frosty pint glass from the freezer behind the bar.

Looking down at the bar top, I massaged my temples. He didn't look like Jarrod. Not at all . . . well, only a little bit. Regardless, he wasn't the same person.

"Damn," I muttered to myself, "get your shit together."

My beer was flung down the long polished bar with a hollered warning while the bartender moved on to his next customer. I caught the glass with a smile. No one around noticed or paid me any mind. It was nice.

Sipping on the java-flavored brew, I studied my fellow patrons. Almost all of them were men.

Most sat in groups with pitchers of pale beer. Some sat alone or in pairs along the long, burnished bar. They cackled amongst themselves or intently watched the matches playing on the flat screens.

The longer I sat and observed, though, the lonelier my invisibility felt. I finished my beer and willed the yellow jersey to meet my eyes. I didn't feel like waving him down or shouting for him.