Vodka burns through my veins, potent enough to intoxicate a dozen people. Just not me. So far, I’ve drunk four bottles in forty-eight hours. Well, almost, because the fourth, half-empty, sits on the nightstand beside an overflowing ashtray. Three more are scattered across the floor, dotted with empty, screwed-up packs of cigarettes.
Forty-eight hours… two days wasted on pouring vodka down my throat, diving into memories, trying to hate her, and getting fucking nowhere. I gulp another mouthful from the crystal glass. My taste buds died after the second bottle, so I no longer feel the scorching sensation of alcohol sliding down my throat. But I do feel pain. Not physical—mental. Though, the intensity doesn’t differ much. If anything, mental pain is ten times worse than a gunshot wound. I’d know.
Alcohol is not the answer. I’m aware of that dreaded fact, but it is supposed to help me forget the question. I call bullshit. All that vodka, but no results. I don’t think any amount of alcohol could silence the cacophony of thoughts swirling in my mind. It hasn’t even helped put me to sleep. I’m drunk and too tired to move but wide awake, nonetheless. I sit on a bare mattress, my back against the headboard.
Bedsheets, covered by a thin layer of snow, became a questionable decoration on the driveway thirty seconds after I burst in here two days ago. The walk-in closet door hangs off the top hinge; not a single dress, blouse, or sweater in sight. The dressing table I bought for her is still by the wall, although upside down, missing legs and the drawers. The mirror is cracked: smashed by my fist in a frenzied fit of rage.
Clothes, shoes, cosmetics, and even the Christmas tree she decorated flew out of the windows. Everything that reminded me of the petite, sassy star I fell in love with flew out of the fucking windows; everything except my mind, which can’t escape her no matter how hard I try.
Trust me. I try really fucking hard.
But she’s all I think about.
I hold my favorite gold revolver in one hand, spinning it around my index finger. Three turns left, three turns right, three turns left, three turns right.
Since she vanished without a trace, she’s constantly on my mind. Not a second goes by that I don’t imagine her smiles, kisses, or recall her voice. Her steel-gray eyes. Full lips. Every whispered I love you. Every tear she cried when she aimed Frank’s gun at my heart outside that warehouse. Forty-eight. Hours. Ago.
I can’t escape her. Memories resurface, each one like a steel-cap-boot kick to my ribs even though I’m already down, for fuck’s sake. I’m not trying to pull myself up. Why should I? What is the point of my damned life now that the only person who mattered up and left?
And so, not for the first time, I toy with the revolver weighing my options. I want to forget about her for a few minutes, long enough to catch a fucking break. Erase my mind like you would a hard drive. Forget how beautiful she is, the sweet smell of her perfume, the delicate touch of her small, warm hand on my chest when she nuzzled into my side every night, falling asleep in my arms. I want to forget the bliss on her face when she whispered I love you but most of all, I want to forget that I love her. I can’t stop.
I miss her so fucking much.
I miss her smiles, gestures, and that godawful attitude. I miss the peace that came with knowing she’s mine. She’s not. I don’t think she ever was. She was a fucking illusion. An idea. A smoke screen.
My heart and mind rebel against my efforts to hate her. I can’t. Not for one second. Not in the slightest. Why the hell not, though? She’s not worth the hassle; she doesn’t deserve me; she’s an emotionally challenged teen who allowed her father to manipulate her. She played along, fulfilled his orders, betrayed my trust, gave me the world, and took it away. All of that’s true. And it doesn’t mean shit.
I still love her.
I would be better off if I could forget she exists, but she’s so fucking deep under my skin that I’d need a new one if I tried to claw her out. I spin the fucking revolver right, left, then right again. Wouldn’t it be easier to pull the trigger?
Night turns to day for the third time before I rise to face the world without her by my side. I’m not ready. I don’t think I will ever be ready, but I don’t have a choice. Spades blows up my phone every hour. He came over yesterday, revved the engine on the driveway, and yelled at the top of his lungs when the maid refused to let him inside. Apparently, the Chief of police is eager to discuss the eighteen bodies we left outside of the warehouse plus a dozen more inside. Julij wants to talk business. The V brothers require a new delivery schedule.
Looks like the world keeps spinning.
I grab a hot shower, drink three shots of espresso, and force a bagel down my numb throat because a liquid diet won’t keep me alive for long. The maid risks a few glances my way, her eyebrows drawn together, thoughts unvoiced. She must wonder where the hell my star is or why her stuff litters the driveway. If she utters her name, I’ll fucking shoot her.
“Tidy up upstairs.” I shove a cigarette between my lips, heading onto the terrace with my phone pressed to my ear.
In the distance, lake Michigan glistens in the early morning sun as if nothing fucking changed. Fresh, biting air fills my lungs, filtering through two days’ worth of cigarette smoke buildup.
Spades answers before the first tone rings out as if he resigned his time to staring at the phone until I called. “Finally,” he huffs down the line, a long, annoyed exhale. “Jeremy’s busting my balls, Julij’s calls every hour on the hour, and the delivery from Detroit is way late. You need a chauffeur, or will you drive yourself to Delta?”
Again, the amount of alcohol in my bloodstream could intoxicate a dozen people… I’m probably in no state to operate heavy machinery. Too bad I’m all bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, fucking kinetic with vim and vigor. Talk about irony.
“Pick me up. I’ll call Vince to check on the load. You tell Jeremy we’ll meet him at the club in two hours. And stall Julij. I can’t deal with his pompous ass today.”
Delta’s in dire need of refurbishment after the fire. I paid no attention to the damages when I tortured the fucker who—
Nope. Not going there. I inhale the freezing air and create a mental bullet-point plan of action. Damage assessment first. Then, contractors to fix the place and update a few details while there’s an opportunity. Delta’s too profitable to close for refurbishment, but now that there’s no other choice, I can think of a few changes.
Thirty seconds on the phone with Spades redirected my thoughts away from Layla. I had zero breaks for two days, not even for one second, but now I broke free from her spell, even if only for a moment, but that’s more than I managed by myself. Work is my answer. Moping in bed won’t help me deal with the past. I need to do something… anything.
