Smolder (Georgia Smoke #6)

• Thirty-Five •

I’d been fooled by the world’s prettiest blue eyes and most magical cunt in the goddamn world

Sebastian

The door to my set of rooms swung open, and Thatcher strolled inside. His gaze dropped to the bottle of whiskey in my hand, then back to me before he tossed something at me.

A new iPhone dropped in my lap. I didn’t reach to pick it up. Instead, I took another drink from the bottle.

Over the past three weeks, I’d found if I drank steadily all day, then I could stay in that balance of not giving a shit. So far, so good.

“Don’t smash that one,” Thatcher told me. “That’s the third phone in three weeks, and I’m done with replacing it.”

I shrugged. “Then, stop doing it.” Seemed like a reasonable suggestion.

“You need a goddamn phone. Just because you’re working on a visit to rehab soon doesn’t mean you aren’t required to be on call at all times.”

I laughed. Yeah, I would be real good at a job. Just point, and I’d shoot.

“How much longer is this shit gonna last?” he asked me.

I tilted my head and pretended to consider this. “I dunno. Perhaps if I keep it up, I’ll need shock therapy, and it will fry my brain. Tell me, does that take away memories?”

He gave me an annoyed glance, then headed back for the door. “Sober up. Breeders’ Cup is in two days, and with me there, you need to be in your right head here.”

“Ah, yes. The Breeders’ Cup. How could I forget? I’m surprised you aren’t there with Capri now. Didn’t she already leave?”

“I had planned to leave with her, but I’ve got you trying to kill your liver,” he replied. “Get sober, or I’ll hold your ass in a cold shower and pour coffee down your fucking throat until you are.”

I glared at the door after he was gone. Sobering up meant feeling. I didn’t want to do that. Every time I tried, it was too much. I couldn’t deal with it.

She’d been at Merce’s. The tracker on her phone had put her at Merce’s. And she hated me. The traitorous little hustler hated me. She’d made me think she felt something. I had believed it. All of it.

Hell, I had given her three days after leaving Merce’s and returning home to come find me. Call me. Fuck! Do something. Show me that she gave a fucking shit. But she never called.

I’d been fooled by the world’s prettiest blue eyes and most magical cunt in the goddamn world. Her birthday had come and gone. I’d had such big plans for that day. So much I wanted to experience with her. Places to take her. But she didn’t want me.

Picking up my phone, I started to slam it against the fireplace and stopped. Not again. It was time I got a grip. Standing up, I stared at the bottle in my other hand, and then I smashed it, letting what was left of the liquor to spray the floor around me.

Stepping over the broken glass, I headed back to my en suite to take a shower.