A cheeky smile lights him up. “Well, now that you mention it…”

“You know what pisses me off the most?” I snap.

His thick, dark brows scrunch up as if he’s confused. “What?”

He actually says it like he hasn’t heard me right, not as a response to my question. But I answer him anyway.

“You could have hurt someone else. You could have hurt me, or some poor soul along the way, with your drunk-ass driving.” Grief sinks its fingers into my heart. “You could have destroyed lives, left people behind to pick up the pieces.”

He blanches, those ridiculous lashes of his sweeping his cheeks as he blinks.

“You want to kill yourself?” I snap. “Do it some other way—”

My voice dies as a snarl leaves him, and he honest-to-God bares his teeth at me. He takes a hard step in my direction as though he might actually come at me, but he halts himself. “Don’t you dare…You have no fucking clue what I’ve… ” His face goes gray as he glares down from his great height.

We stare at each other while he kind of just sways there, all pasty and trembling, his anger so near the surface that his eyes shine with it.

It’s that pain-filled rage that snares me, distracts me from the warning signs.

“You don’t know…” He swallows convulsively.

Only then does it occur to me that I’m in trouble. I leap back, but it’s too late. My lawn bum hunches over and hurls. All down my front.

Shock roots me to the spot for an agonizing moment. Then the smell hits me anew. I force myself to look up, face my tormentor. A thousand curses race through my head but only one sentence gets past my clenched teeth.

“I hate you.”

 

Killian

 

Usually when a woman tells you she hates you with a cold, dead look in her eye, she makes an effort to avoid all further contact.

Not so with Elly May, she of the water hose from hell.

Okay, I did just yack all over her, so she might have reason to hate me. Very good reason.

I haven’t apologized to anyone in years. A small voice in my head is telling me I should do it now. But the whisky still sloshing around in my head is drowning that voice out. Shit, everything is sloshing right now—the ground, my brain, my blood. My ears are ringing.

I’m going down. I know I am. Vague surprise registers as my tormentor steps forward, not away, and wraps her arms around me. Holding me up.

Good luck with that, honey.

I hear her curse, feel her knees buckle under my weight. We fall down together. I think I laugh. Not sure. It’s all fading. Exactly what I want.

 

The world is a blur. Water blasts my face. Again. Mother fuck, that’s annoying.

Sputtering, I try to wipe my face, but my arms aren’t working right. Everything is rubbery and heavy.

“Stop flailing, you complete pain in my ass,” snarls a girl.

Elly May. I don’t care if her voice sounds like vanilla cream over ice, she’s the devil. A water devil. Maybe hell doesn’t burn. Maybe it’s perpetual drowning.

“You’re not going to drown,” she says, spraying me again.

I sputter, spit out a mouthful of water that tastes of vomit and whisky. I can’t see a goddamn thing past the deluge. “What is with you and water?” I manage before another round hits me.

“It has this magical ability to wash away filth,” she drawls as her hand rubs over my chest, not in a soothing way, but hard, as if she’s trying to remove my skin. Soap bubbles. It smells like grapefruit and vanilla. Girl soap.

“Yes, soap. Water and soap cleans,” she continues, as if I’m an infant. “I know. Crazy, right?”

Sarcasm. I’m an expert on it. When I’m not so drunk my eyes refuse to open, that is.

Hard hands move to along my scalp. Fingers snag in my hair.

“Jesus, when’s the last time you brushed this mop?”

“Birth. Now lay off. Let me up.”

“You have vomit in your hair. I’m getting it out.”

I let her wash me, her voice drifting in and out as she bitches. She’s never gentle. Doesn’t matter. I can’t handle gentle anyway.

I am dried off, tugged along. Everything still spins. Dip, sway, spin. No matter what I do to get away from it, I still hear the rhythm of life.

“I don’t hear anything but you babbling,” she says, her face a fuzzy halo above me.

Below me is soft. Cool sheets. Heavy blankets.

She rolls me on my side, shoves pillows behind my back. “You barf again, you’re on your own, buddy.”

Always am, honey.

Chapter Two

Killian

 

The pillow beneath my head is…fucking fantastic. I mean, it really is. Like a squishy cloud or something. Which is weird. Why am I getting a hard-on over a pillow?

This oddball thought wakes me up enough that I open my eyes. Sunlight burns, and I wince, squinting for a second. The room is white. Whitewashed wood-paneled walls, white sheets, white curtains drifting in a soft breeze coming through an open window.

I press my face against the cool pillow that feels like a cloud and take a breath. There’s an axe of pain splitting my skull. My mouth is burnt toast.

On the bedside table sits a tall glass of some red drink. It’s filled with fresh ice, the glass beaded with condensation as if someone just brought it in. Next to it are four clear, blue pills and a note:

For the criminally stupid.

Despite the fact that movement makes my stomach heave, I snort. Memories of my hostess’s sharp tongue and rough hands rush in. I ignore them—because I really don’t want to remember how drunk I was—and pick up the glass.

The drink smells vaguely like a Bloody Mary but also of something sharp and citrus. I don’t want to taste it, but that axe is driving deeper, and I’m thirsty as fuck.

It goes down hard, me gagging along the way, the pills I take with it almost getting stuck in my throat. The concoction is fizzy, which is a surprise. I’m guessing it’s Bloody Mary mixed with ginger soda and lemons—but hell, maybe there’s arsenic in it too. By the time I finish, I kind of enjoy the taste and feel like I just might live.

I lie on the white cloud bed, smell the touch of sea brine in the air, and listen to the wind chimes. Until the banging of pots and the slam of a cabinet door snag my attention.