Excerpt

Cyrus

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The hum of activity in the station draws my attention away from my dark thoughts. No clue how I got here. The blood on my knuckle has dried and my fist throbs, although I’m considering putting it through another wall. A harried woman rushes past me on her way to the ticket machine, her destination most likely known. Mine on the other hand … not so much.

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I wander over to the elevators and push both buttons. Whichever one arrives first will decide my fate. Up will take me to the A-Train. Back to the Northwest before heading home. Down, means I’m staying. At least for now.

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A bell chimes and the doors slide open, the down arrow illuminated. I step to the side as people pour out in a hurry to catch a ride to their final destinations. Stepping into the now empty car, I press the button for the lowest level and descend to the beach. Hours pass as I walk along the shore, going over everything in my head, anger surging in waves. Being pissed off may not be rational, but nothing about this is rational.

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Hell, she disappeared into herself because she thought the asshat was dead, but he’s alive and in her fucking bed. Morning gives way to afternoon and finally evening, and I’ve probably clocked twenty miles without eating.

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Pivoting away from the water’s edge, I trudge through the sand to the closest commuter station and hop a train to the back wall. I ride an elevator up, putting maximum distance between me and the ocean. As much as I love it, being there reminds me too much of her.

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On the top level, I enter the first pub I find with every intent of getting piss-ass drunk. When I sober up, I’ll head back out to the Ruins. Fuck fate, I’m done here. I shove my way through the crowd to an open stool at the bar.

A middle-aged bartender with a starched shirt and a crazy mustache that curls beyond his face flips a cocktail napkin onto the counter. “What’ll it be?”

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“Scotch.”

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Moments later he sets my drink in front of me, and I down it in one gulp. The alcohol burns my throat before warming my stomach on its way to my arms and legs, taking the edge off. When I catch the bartender’s eye, I signal for another. Between sips, I stare at the ice cubes, forcing myself to think about the scotch, the scratches in the wood, anything but what I saw in that hotel room this morning. Soon the booze works its magic, leaving me pleasantly buzzed. Guzzling the last of the amber liquid, I set the glass down a little harder than necessary and order a third.

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Bodies fill the large club, voices droning above the background music. A group of girls to my left are all wearing body-hugging outfits, an over-abundance of makeup, and screaming as they do shots. They’re all very attractive, or at least they are in my alcohol-induced state.

One girl in particular is extraordinarily beautiful in an artificial way. She’s tall and slender with dark silky hair and overly-made-up eyes that are so blue, they nearly look purple. She spots me checking her out and her bright pink lips pull into a smile, showing off straight, blinding white teeth.

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She slinks over to me, her flowered dress hugging impressive curves, mesmerizing me with her moves. The knowing smile says she’s aware of her effect on me. She reaches out and places a tan hand on my arm. “Whoever she is, she’s a fool.”

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I throw her a smooth grin, the kind that always gets me into plenty of trouble. “Is it that obvious?”

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“I’ve seen guys drink that much scotch for only one reason. She must have been an idiot to let you go.”

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Her voice is rich and velvety, and my body is responding even if my brain isn’t engaged. Maybe what I need is a night of distraction. What could it hurt? I can catch the first train in the morning.

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I signal the bartender and turn to the girl to find out what she wants. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

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“Violet,” she purrs.