by Parker, Ali
He shook his head, giving me a quick flash of those pearly whites again. “You hit the nail on the head about the man thing. When Jeremiah’s in this frame of mind, he’s not going to talk to me about it. He’ll drink with me, talk shit and tell me he’s okay. It’s a pride thing.”
“I’m assuming we’re not talking ‘pride’ as in the collective noun for lions.”
Shawn laughed. “I can see why he likes you, but no. Even if we were, every pride has its alpha, right? The lion who thinks it’s in charge and keeps the problems away from the rest of them.”
“I don’t think lions work quite that way, but I think I get what you mean anyway.”
Sitting back, he smiled and rubbed his palms together like he was dusting them off. “Then my work here is done. You’ll go see him?”
“I will,” I said. If Jeremiah needed my help, I would gladly give it. “Without letting him know I’m checking in on him.”
He nodded gratefully. “Thank you. I knew you cared about him, even if you never answered my question.”
“I do care about him.” There was no point in trying to hide it. Knowing now what Shawn’s angle was for asking, I found myself not minding telling him the truth. It wasn’t a random, invasive question anymore. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Just a head’s up, I suspect he hasn’t left his house in days. He might also not be excited to see you there at first. It won’t be anything personal, so don’t let it derail you.”
I lifted my glass to his and clinked it before draining what little was left of my beer. “I can handle it. One intervention for a possibly smelly, internalizing alpha coming up.”
Chapter 56
JEREMIAH
“Another one bites the dust.” I dropped the empty bottle of Macallan Select into the trash, listening to it crash against its friends already lying at the bottom. I hiccupped and clipped my hip against the bar counter.
Slamming my palm down on the offending granite, I glared at it. “Didn’t even hurt, fucker.”
The stupid thing got in my way again when I reached up for another bottle of whiskey. I stumbled forward slightly, managing to catch myself before I went down and whacked my head against it.
My vision was swimming already, and I knew I was going to have another killer hangover tomorrow. The last thing I needed was to knock myself out on my own damn bar.
The first thing I needed was more whiskey. Holding myself steady, I reached up again and heard hollow, triumphant laughter when my fingers closed around the bottle’s fat neck. It took a while for my alcohol-soaked brain to realize the laughter came from me. No matter.
“Come to papa, beautiful.” Urg. Papa.
I fucking hated my damn papa. If you could even call the man that. Sperm donor was perhaps a better description. God knew real fathers would never act the way mine did on a daily basis. “Asshole.”
There was a dull clunk of crystal against granite as I set my tumbler down harder than I intended to. My hands felt a little numb. Just the way I wanted.
Squinting with one eye, I refilled my drink and saw an amber puddle forming next to my glass. I briefly considered slurping up the spilled top-shelf whiskey, then snorted. There was more than enough where that came from. And if I ran out, I would have more delivered.
This was New York City, and I was one of its favorite children. I owned the damn town. If I wanted more whiskey in the middle of the night, I could get it. No problem.
Smirking, I went out on my balcony. You bet I can get more whiskey.
There were so many lights on in the city tonight. At least twice as many as usual. Or maybe I was seeing double. Who the fuck cared?
My father didn’t, that was for sure. “Dear old Daddy-O is disappointed again. Who would’ve thunk it?”
A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. Me, that’s who. I would’ve thunk it. I did thunk it. Or was that think it?
I didn’t care about that either. Thunk it or think it, I knew better than to think my father could ever be proud of me. I wanted him to see the progress I made, but nothing I did made the man happy. Ever.
Unless I could turn myself into my brother, that would probably thrill Dad. Almost instantly, I felt a familiar sense of shame flooding my veins, competing with the alcohol it found there.
I was ashamed of myself. My father only made me realize it so much more often than I did myself. Just like he made me realize so many other things about myself, like how I couldn’t meet any of his expectations no matter what I did.
I was the family fuck-up. Shrugging, I tossed half my drink down my throat. Someone had to be the fuck-up in the family, even one like mine. Might as well be me.
Brooding and angry, I stared down at the city. For three years, I gave Williams Inc. all my time and attention, and I was never good enough. Whenever I got close to the goalpost, Dad moved it again. And around and around we go.
I heaved out a deep sigh, barely suppressing the urge to smash my glass against the cold metal railing in front of me. The only reason I didn’t was because stumbling back inside to get another felt like it would be unnecessary effort.
Everything felt like it would be unnecessary effort. Even getting out of bed felt like a waste of time. The only reason I did it was because I wasn’t some depressed loser who wallowed around in bed all day. No, you’re a depressed loser who wallows around drinking in your apartment all day.
“Shut up,” I mumbled to the sober part of my self-conscious who was being way too rational for my tastes. “My apartment’s twelve thousand square feet. The bed is only twenty-four.”
Take that, soon to be all the way drunk brain!
My head swam, and I swayed on my feet. Maybe I was closer to blind drunk than I thought. Perfect.
I just wanted to forget this week ever happened. I wondered how much I would have to drink to erase the last three years. Now that would really be perfect.
Raising my glass to my lips, I tipped it back. Nothing. Fuck. It was dry again.
“Fuck the glass.” I was bringing the bottle out. The whiskey was already in a glass. No need to keep decanting it into a smaller one.
Grinning diabolically at my clever plan, I went inside to put it in motion. When I stepped onto the white tiles inside my apartment, I heard an annoying buzzing sound that wouldn’t go away. I ignored it as I crossed to the bar, listening to my bare feet slap onto the tile.
Then I ignored it as I grabbed my bottle and started going back to my balcony with plans to curl up on my lounger under the stars. And possibly drink until I couldn’t drink anymore.
The buzzing became more insistent, no longer short bursts but coming in one long, annoying sound that drilled into my brain. With a growl of frustration, I realized it was my apartment’s buzzer.
“Sorry, not the time to visit,” I muttered, but the person kept at it. Finally, I marched over and punched my thumb down on the intercom button. “Jeremiah’s not here. Leave a message.”
“This isn’t your voicemail,” a sweet, familiar voice said through the slatted metal box. “It’s me, Jer. Stephanie. Can I come up?”
I swayed on my feet again, a wave of dizziness threatening to make me lose my balance. Warm whiskey roiled in my stomach. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Hovering my finger over the intercom button, I looked around at my apartment after blinking a few times to clear my vision. It swam into view. Not a pretty sight. Clothes, blankets, cushions, empty bottles, glasses, and cardboard containers were strewn around.
Some of the furniture was askew, though I couldn’t remember when or how that happened. Past the living areas in the kitchen, dirty utensils and implements lay forgotten on the stove and countertops.
I rubbed my eyes, surveying the carnage of my usually immaculate home. Courtesy of my housekeeper, but I liked keeping things clean and neat too.
A large mirror hung on the wall in the entrance hall. I twisted around to see my reflection in it. Jesus. I looked as bad as my apartment did
. My skin’s pallor was unhealthy and pale. It had a grayish tinge to it I couldn’t imagine being a good thing.
Shadows bloomed under my eyes, dark smudges of bluish purple that reminded me of people dressing up for Halloween, but October was a long way away. I looked pinched, tired, and angry.
My jaw was tight, my features arranged into a scowl that felt permanent. Eyes narrowed almost to slits, there was barely any skin left between my eyebrows for how much they were knitted together.
Blue drawstring pants hung from my hips and a navy robe over my shoulders, but I wasn’t wearing anything else. Honestly, I didn’t even remember putting this on after my last shower. Which was… fuck if I knew.
The place was a mess. I was a mess. The state I was in wasn’t pretty. I didn’t want her to see me like this. If she did, she would probably turn tail and run in the other direction as fast as her legs could carry her. Any sane woman would.
No one would want to stick around to deal with the mess in my life. Couldn’t say I blamed them either. If I could, I would probably run in the other direction about now. It had to smell better there.
Stephanie, oblivious to what she was asking to be let in on, spoke up again. “Come on, Jeremiah. Please let me come up.”
I leaned in closer to the intercom, swaying a little as I pressed my finger down firmly on the button. Enunciating as clearly as I could, I said “No.”
Proud of myself for having made the right decision, I was about to turn away and get back to the lounger and my whiskey when her voice crackled through the intercom again, so sweet and pure. It was like a siren’s call to me.
“I just want to see you, Jeremiah. Make sure you’re okay. It’s been a rough week and I...” She trailed off. I could picture her so clearly in my mind’s eye, the way her eyes would be intently focused on the buzzer as she thought. “I need to see you. I need… You.”
The last few words threw me off my game, made me falter in my certainty. “You need me?”
“Yes,” she said, as clearly as my “No” had been and with as little hesitation.
Dropping my forehead to my hand on the wall, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady myself. If I let Stephanie up, I was sure to lose her before I even really had her. On the other hand, she needed me. If I didn’t let her up after she told me that, I’d probably lose her anyway. I would definitely lose her respect.
Catch-22. Nausea got a grip on my stomach from my eyes being closed, and I quickly opened them again, just as I felt that grip turn into a hook that would’ve turned ugly in less than a minute.
“Jer, are you there?”
My finger grew heavy, pressing down on the button almost by itself. “I’m here.”
Her voice was soft, gentle. “You going to let me up?”
“I’m thinking about it,” I said, wondering which way of losing her was the lesser of the two evils. Letting her up and seeing me as such a wreck, or not letting her up and having her go back to thinking I was an unfeeling, uncaring, arrogant bastard with more money than brain cells who still played hit-it-and-quit-it with every woman he came into contact with.
A bitter feeling spread through my chest. My dad already thought I was that guy. As did most of the people who had ever heard my name. For some reason I would never understand, Stephanie saw through that guy. That guise.
She saw through it, then she reached in and brought the guy inside out. Challenged him and demanded better from him, making me feel like I could be that version of myself all the time. Like maybe I was that guy already.
Without saying another word or trying to talk myself out of it anymore, I buzzed Stephanie in. There wasn’t really an alternative. I couldn’t bear to see her looking at me again like she had after that lunchtime incident after her first interview. I couldn’t stand the thought of her thinking I was the guy my father was convinced I was.
Having him look at me with disappointment and thinly veiled disgust was enough. I wouldn’t let Stephanie do the same, though she might anyway once she saw the state I was in.
But then at least she wouldn’t think I left her literally standing out in the cold after she told me she needed me, wouldn’t think I was that callous or unfeeling or immature.
The lock on my door clicked as I unlocked it for her, then went to wait for Stephanie on the couch with a replenished glass of whiskey in hand. A tiny, decanted one again. Not the whole bottle. I was counting it as a win.
Chapter 57
STEPHANIE
“Jeremiah?” I called out when I stepped into his apartment. The first thing I noticed was the smell of alcohol in the closed stuffiness of his apartment. The curtains and the blinds were drawn, but I noticed one curtain fluttering in a light breeze coming in off the balcony.
It was weird to think of a place the size of his being stuffy, but the air in here smelled old. And capable of getting you drunk, or at least making you high.
I made my way deeper into the apartment. There were only a few lights on, and they were dimmed to cast a warm glow but would’ve been too weak for reading without straining your eyes.
Just before I turned the corner into his living room, I heard him call out his answer. “In here.”
Calling out was a strong term for his reply. Croaking was probably more appropriate. When I walked into his living room, I could see why.
Jeremiah was a disaster. Ice prickled my extremities, and I forget to breathe for a couple of beats as shock crashed into my chest. Despite what Shawn said, I didn’t expect to find Jeremiah like this.
He was seated wide legged on his couch, his arms spread out to his sides on the backrest behind him. Head hanging just a little bit, his eyelids looked heavy and red. Like he hadn’t gotten much sleep.
A fact echoed by the disturbingly dark circles under his eyes.
A navy blue robe clung to his broad shoulders, falling open to reveal his drool-worthy torso. Any other day, I would’ve immediately and unabashedly ogled the planes and ridges of his body, wanted to trace between the defined lines of muscle with my tongue.
But this wasn’t any other day.
I barely spared a glance at his exposed upper body, except to notice that his skin was an unnatural color. My eyes slid to his, and I was surprised at the depths of despair I saw there.
Shawn was right to call me. Jeremiah really didn’t look good. A sense of shame heated my belly that I hadn’t come to him sooner, but I shook it off. Onwards and upwards. You’re here now.
The man was usually so confident and self-contained. I had no way of knowing what he was going through. It wasn’t like I was just going to arrive at his apartment and make myself at home in case he needed someone to take care of him.
“You okay?” I asked, eyeing the glass of whiskey balanced precariously between two loose fingers where he held it tipped slightly to one side on the couch. It looked like it was about to spill over any second.
He hesitated, but then surprisingly, he shook his head. “I look like shit.”
“You do.” A smile spread over my lips. “But don’t worry, you still look better than most people do when they’re at your stage.”
A frown marred the strip of skin between his dark brows. “My stage?”
My eyes narrowed as I took him in, studying how his eyes were a little glazed and unfocused. “I would say somewhere between nursing one hell of a hangover, being back to tipsy. Not quite bordering on full-on drunk yet.”
“Yet.” He brought the glass to his lips to take a deep sip. A drop of the liquid escaped from the corner of his mouth when he pulled the glass away. Before I could reach for it, he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “If all goes according to plan, I will be soon.”
“I have a better plan,” I said, sinking down next to him on the couch and gently lifting the whiskey from his hand. He speared me with an annoyed glare, but I ignored him. “How about you go take a shower? I’ll come check your bandage and change it when you’re done.”
Fingers absently rea
ching for his forehead as I pointed at it, he seemed mildly surprised to feel the bandage taped there. “I forgot about this.”
“It’s from the accident.” The doctors thought the cut on the upper left side of his forehead would heal completely, he’d told me after being checked out on Tuesday. Supposedly, it wouldn’t even leave much of a scar—which he’d seemed a little disappointed about at the time.
Nodding, he let the whiskey go and toyed with the edges of the bandage with his free hand. His eyes were stormy and far away before he brought his gaze back to mine. “I’ll go shower, but I don’t need your help with the bandage.”
I shrugged, knowing I was going to help him with it one way or the other. It needed a proper cleaning, and I didn’t trust his dexterity to do it right. “Sure, I only wanted to come to the bathroom to check you out when you got naked anyway.”
“Anytime.” He smirked, seeming less unsteady on his feet when he stood than I might’ve expected. “Want to join me?”
I nodded, pushing to my feet with absolutely no intention of getting in the shower with him. Sex wasn’t going to fix what he was feeling, but I wasn’t above using the confidence he had in those abilities and the mask he used them to hide behind to gain entrance to his bathroom. Where I saw a first aid kit last time I was here.
Jeremiah turned the knobs on his fancy ass shower, leaning against the stone as he fiddled with the temperature. I knelt in front of the cabinet beneath his sink, pushing past thick gray towels to the first aid kit.
When he turned to find me on my knees, he frowned in surprise but then schooled his features and flashed me a leery grin as he started tugging down his powder blue drawstring pants. “Well, if you insist.”
I got to my feet quickly, catching his wrist before he could free his junk. “I don’t. Or I do, but to clean your wound not to suck you off.”