Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 43Lawrence

Chapter Forty-Three

Lawrence

Present

The door slams shut with a finality that echoes through the empty house. I watch Willow's green hair disappear behind it, taking all the color in my world with her. Fuck.

"Well, that went splendidly," I mutter to myself, running a hand through my hair. "Bravo, Lawrence. You've outdone yourself this time."

I can almost hear Roman's voice in my head: "I told you, man. Lauren wasn't the one. But did you listen? Noooo."

"Shut up, imaginary Roman," I growl, pacing the living room like a caged animal. The truth stings worse than a jellyfish to the face. Willow is the one. Was the one. Is? God, I don't even know anymore.

My chest feels like it's being crushed by one of those massive cranes down at Norfolk harbor. I want to scream, to let out all this... what? Anger? Frustration?

No. It's grief. Pure, unadulterated grief for what could have been. What should have been.

Instead of dealing with that emotional garbage fire, I do what any mature, sensible adult would do. I lose my shit.

"AAAAARRRRGGGHHH!" The scream rips from my throat, shaking the mansion Willow and I had been calling home.

I eye the sturdy log walls of this backwater Virginia paradise. "Let's see how you handle this."

I rear back and punch the wall with all my might, half-expecting my fist to go right through the drywall like in the movies. Instead, I'm greeted with a sickening thud and a jolt of pain that shoots up my arm.

"Son of a..." I cradle my hand, glaring at the unblemished wall. "Fucking well-built home."

But I'm not done. Oh no, I've got a whole lot of misplaced anger to work through. I launch a barrage of punches at the unyielding surface, each impact sending shockwaves of pain through my body.

"Take that!" Thud. "And that!" Thwack. "How do you like me now, you smug piece of lumber?"

By the time I'm done, my knuckles are a mess of bruises and blood. The wall, however, stands tall and proud, not even a scratch to show for my tantrum.

I slump against it, sliding down to the floor, my battered hands cradled in my lap. "Well played, house," I whisper. "Well played."

I don't know how long I sit there for. Eventually, I push myself up, swaying slightly as I stumble towards the kitchen. The fridge beckons like a beacon of hope in my alcohol-deprived state. I yank the door open, squinting at the bright light that spills out.

"Come on, baby. Daddy needs his medicine," I mutter, pawing through the shelves.

My hand closes around a cold bottle and I pull it out, triumphant. Then I see the label.

"Fucking kombucha?" I groan, staring at the offending beverage. "Seriously, Willow?"

Everything in this damn fridge screams her name. Organic veggies, almond milk, some weird fermented stuff I can't even pronounce. It's like a hipster health food store threw up in here.

"This is what I get for falling in love with a tree-hugger," I grumble, shoving aside kale and quinoa.

My traitorous brain tries to linger on the words "in love" and that's when I renew my search for alcohol with increased vigor.

Finally, my fingers brush against smooth glass. Bingo. I pull out the vodka from the bottom shelf.

"Hello, beautiful. Where have you been all my life?"

I unscrew the cap and take a long swig, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. It's cheap and nasty, but right now it's exactly what I need.

"Bottoms up," I toast to the empty kitchen, then proceed to chug like a frat boy at his first kegger.

The room starts to spin, and I find myself sliding down to the cool tile floor. My phone buzzes in my pocket, an insistent reminder of the outside world I'm trying to forget.

I fish it out, squinting at the too-bright screen. The names and icons blur together in a kaleidoscope of color.

"Fuck it," I mutter, holding down the button. "Call Roman."

As the phone starts to ring, I take another swig of vodka. At least Roman will appreciate my commitment to getting absolutely shitfaced.

The line crackles to life, and Roman's voice filters through, tinny and distant. "Lawrence? What's up, man?"

"Roman, my dude," I slur, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "It happened again. She's gone."

"Oh shit," he breathes, and I can practically see him running a hand through his hair, concern etched on his face. "Are you okay?"

I bark out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Peachy keen. Don't worry about me. I'm gonna be okay."

There's a pause, and I can feel the lie hanging heavy in the air between us. My throat tightens, and before I know it, I'm choking on the words.

"That's bullshit," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm not okay, Roman. I'm so fucking far from okay."

And just like that, the dam breaks. Tears start streaming down my face, hot and relentless. I'm crying like a baby, snot and all, right there on my kitchen floor with a bottle of vodka as my only company.

"Shit, Lawrence," Roman says, his voice soft. “I wish there was more I could do. I’m gonna try and find a way to come and see you. Just…try not to drink yourself into oblivion until then, no matter how good it feels.”

I laugh wetly, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "No promises, buddy. But don't worry about it, really. I'll be fine."

Even as I say it, I can feel consciousness slipping away, the vodka and emotional exhaustion taking their toll. The phone slides from my grip, clattering to the floor.

As the darkness claims me, I slip into a blissful dream where a girl with green hair hasn't just walked out of my life, leaving me alone with nothing but regrets and a bottle of cheap booze.