Wasted Time (The Steel City #1)

9. Declan

CHAPTER NINE

declan

I wake up in a puddle of sweat and with a death wish.

I mean it. I want to die.

There’s a reason I try not to drink too much during the season, and this feeling is it. I’m not a spring chicken anymore. I am nearing twenty-nine. My hangovers last two days minimum, and they almost always feel like a train ran over my skull.

I lift my head, wiping the drool from my chin. It’s my living room spinning around me, not my bedroom. That’s new. I sprung for a lavish, obscene couch that turns into the most comfortable and enormous bed ever, and apparently, that came in handy last night.

I groan, rolling my head to my left. Nearly hanging off the side of the couch is Forker, butt-ass naked, aside from a pair of black briefs. He’s turned away from me, but his deep snores confirm that he’s alive.

I glance to the other side of the room, squinting through the light coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The coffee table is pushed toward the wall, littered with tipped-over bottles and empty shot glasses.

So, we brought the party home last night. How stupid.

I blame Forker. I don’t know why, but it is definitely his fault.

My eyes flicker to the foot of the giant sofa bed. The couch is so obnoxiously big that even two grown hockey players, completely sprawled out, can’t touch the sleeping Boston Black with the tips of our toes. He’s face down on the couch, fully clothed, and his long dark hair covers his face. He cuddles a pillow like it’s his childhood teddy bear.

“Fuck,” I mutter, sitting upright.

“No,” Boston grumbles but doesn’t move or open his eyes. “You didn’t. You left her in your bed like an asshole.”

I run a hand over my face. I’m still a bit drunk, so it feels like he’s talking in riddles.

“What?”

Lord, my head is spinning.

“The girl.”

I glare at him. Maybe if he opened his eyes, I’d be able to understand what the hell he was talking about.

“What girl?”

“Shut up,” Forker groans loudly, throwing his arm over his face. “Redhead, nice legs, incredible fucking lips. Stayed after her friends left. Probably still in your bed.”

A montage of last night flashes behind my eyes. The redhead. Annie? Allie? Ainsley? Fuck, I don’t know. All I know is that she was hot, she was all over me, and she and her friends wanted to continue the night after the bar closed. There were three of them.

Clearly, Forker and Boston got none last night.

Did I?

I think back, remembering following her up the stairs after setting up the couch for the boys. I remember kissing her mouth and tasting her vanilla lip gloss, and I definitely remember pulling that tight black dress off of her body. She crawled into my bed after that, staring up at me from across the room with big, brown bedroom eyes.

I remember my phone going off.

Shit.

Something pissed me off last night.

No, that’s an understatement. Something sent me into a full-blown temper tantrum. It had enough sway to pull me away from the hot redhead who clearly wanted to have a good time as much as I needed to.

Fuck.

I looked at her, apologized, and told her to stay. I remember that. I then proceeded to have a sleepover with two grown men instead of taking a guest room or just sleeping next to a beautiful woman whose name I can’t remember for the life of me.

I am an asshole. I need to get her out of here before the boys wake up. Poor girl is probably mortified right now. I would be. The least I could do is send her away without an audience.

Trying my hardest not to die, I stand and stagger on my feet, leaving the two buffoons on my couch. I rub the sleep from my eyes, dragging my body toward the stairs and struggling not to upchuck all the liquor sloshing around in my stomach. I’ve managed to keep on my briefs and a T-shirt, but I don’t even think it was Ainsley who undressed me that far.

It was probably Forker.

I need ibuprofen and water immediately.

I reach the top of the stairs after what feels like an hour’s worth of cardio.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and push myself into my bedroom before I can wimp out of what is inevitably going to be one of the most awkward conversations of my life.

It’s dark. My blackout curtains are superb, if I do say so myself. I hate to wake her like this, but I see no other choice. I’m not going to cuddle up next to her now, and I’m sure she’d slap me if I tried to make small talk after the show I put on.

I flick on the lights.

All that greets me is a perfectly made bed. There’s a piece of paper, ripped from a notebook that she probably dug out of my nightstand. My phone rests on top of it.

I trudge toward it, relief blossoming through me.

She already left.

I grab the note and sink onto the bed.

I didn't want to get into a rideshare in my dress (bad experiences). I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts from your closet.

Swear I wasn’t stealing, I’ll return them. If you’d prefer not to see me again, I’ll consider them a gift for being left in a stranger’s bed. Seriously though, text me if you would like to get them back. I can mail them.

Also, I didn’t smash your phone. You did when you dropped it.

Whoever she is, she’s an idiot.

Arden.

I cringe inwardly, staring at her phone number and knowing I’m not going to use it.

Arden, not Ainsley. She seems like a cool girl. I really hope she knows that last night had nothing to do with her. That was all me. I shouldn’t have brought her back here in the first place. I also shouldn’t have acted like a basket case while she waited for me, half-naked in my bed.

I can’t wait for this to come out in the tabloids. The way they twist this one will be dangerous.

I place the letter on the bed and glance at my shattered phone screen. I can’t quite remember what set me off, but I know who it was about. The only thing that seems to set me off nowadays is the same damn girl.

I tap my phone, and it comes to life. Shattered, yes. Not broken.

I unlock it and see an array of text messages. I scroll up through the ‘Big Dogs’ chat, but there’s nothing. Scratching my jaw, I open the most recent conversation I had. It was with Seth, and the last message was at three-thirty in the morning.

Red flag. Nothing good happens after two AM.

Seth

Dude, I don’t know what you did, but undo it.

I answered him as we were leaving the bar.

Me

What’s my litle guy doinge up so lateeee?

Seth

Oh, you’re wasted. This should be fun.

Me

I AM having fun, thank you. So is Abby, a gorgeous redhead currently pressed to my lAp.

Seth

happy for you.

* Attached: 1 image *

I must have been back at the house at this point with Arden, not Abby, and her friends. A couple of hours ticked by without me checking my phone. Then, at three-thirty, Seth sent a follow-up message.

Seth

I don’t know how to save this. Would love it if you have any brilliant ideas. You don’t have to live with one of them when they’re mad. I do. It’s not fucking fun, Declan.

It hadn’t been the last text that made me toss my phone. It’s what the last text prompted me to look at—the attached screenshot that he’d sent earlier.

A fresh wave of anger washes over me as I stare at the picture.

I open Instagram so quickly that shards of glass from my cracked screen embed in my thumb. I type in Penny’s name and am greeted with the same visual that set me off last night. A private account that I no longer have access to. I pull up my followers list. There are three million names, but only one matters. I type it in.

She no longer follows me.

Penny has removed me from her socials. Why does that hurt worse than her removing me from her real life? This feels more permanent, more vital. She doesn’t even want me to have the option of keeping up with her anymore.

Seth had screenshotted Penny’s friend list with my name in the search bar, turning up zero results. There’s no way in hell he just decided to check and see if that were the case. He had insider information. He lives with one-half of the twins.

I dial him immediately.

It’s early, but he picks up. The man is up at six in the morning every day of his life .

“How’s Abby?” is all he says.

“Funny,” I grunt, running a hand over my face. “Let me have it then.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. “You saw the screenshot.”

“What happened to prompt this?” Because something had to have. I was cut from a photo yesterday and then blacklisted by the morning. I had no contact with her between those two events.

Silence.

“Seth.”

“Alright,” he sighs, and I hear him pressing buttons on his coffee machine. “I think you should check your phone.”

I shut my eyes and take in a breath. I don’t like the sound of that.

I put the phone on speaker and scroll through my texts until I see her name, much higher up than it should be if we haven’t spoken in months.

Shit.

One in the morning. I sent her a message and she didn’t respond.

Me

I looked handsome in your Instagram post, P. Good to know you never intend on growig up!! Maybe you and Glen ARE made for each other. You’re both shit.

“Shit,” I grumble, running a hand through my hair.

“Yeah, and then Wyatt texted her some jokes about the crop job and she kind of lost it.”

Fucking Wyatt.

“She didn’t like that you were talking about it to everyone, I guess. I think she expected you to talk about it with her directly if you were angry with her. ”

A growl of frustration leaves my throat. I fall back onto the bed, right onto Arden’s letter.

I think I need a break from women. They’re doing my head in. I know, I know. This is kind of my fault. That text message was unnecessary and could have been a hell of a lot nicer, but this is starting to feel like mental warfare that I am not trained in or prepared for.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that when she told me not to talk to her?”

“I don’t know, man,” he says with a long breath. “I think the answer is pretty obvious, but you’re too stubborn to even consider it a possibility.”

I run a hand over my forehead. “I’m too hungover for your vague lessons. What is the answer, almighty oracle?”

“Fucking apologize, Declan,” he spits out. Aaand the tipping point has been reached.

Seth has now transformed into Grumpy Seth. Probably because he’s stuck in the middle of all of this. He doesn’t want to pick sides, but he’ll always be a bit on mine. Penny has Avery, so he’ll make sure the playing field is even if he needs to.

But that’s also his girl. He’s got to keep the wife happy, too.

“No.”

“Man, you hurt her feelings. You ridiculed her relationship for the hundredth time. You embarrassed her. The least you can do is tell her you’re sorry, even if you don’t think you were wrong.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” I say plainly, and he curses under his breath. Well, I was. But only about that text message. I stand by the rest. “You know it, Avery knows it, and I know it. We all know it. I’m not apologizing just because she wants to act like a teenager and try to delete me out of her life like that’s even possible.”

“If you don’t find a way to fix this, it’s only going to get worse. Visits will be awful. The tension will be uncomfortable. Think of the aftermath of you and Tiffany, but sixty times worse.”

I don’t think anything could be worse than the Tiffany and Declan fallout. Penny and I can co-exist until she gets over this. She will get over this. It is a stupid thing to destroy a friendship over. But again, I am not going to grovel. I can deal with her shade and her daggers. She is the one who has to live with her choices.

I sent a crappy text. That’s my bad. But the rest of this is not my fault.

One day she is going to wake up and realize that I was being the best friend she had.