Drunk on Love (Cock Tales #1)

by S. L. Scott

I walk away, leaving the blonde behind me just where she should have always stayed—in my past.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Standing at the window of my apartment, I stare out. I can’t see beyond two feet. The snow is dense. The weatherman has called it a blizzard and told his viewers to hunker down. But there’s no hunkering to be done. The weather outside matches the storm raging inside me since Virginia walked out of the bar.

  It’s her birthday and I’m stuck inside during the snowpocalypse. The bar is closed like almost everything else in Brooklyn. I have a feeling Manhattan is even worse. That’s left me with nothing to do but relate to the bad conditions. Feeling sorry for myself has become my specialty over the last forty hours. Not that I’m counting. I’ve done everything to get a hold of her and she’s just not having any of it.

  Texted.

  Called.

  Email.

  Pigeon carrier.

  Okay, no pigeons were harmed in the process of getting a hold of Virginia. Nor were they used in any way, but if you know of any fanciers, let me know. Asking for a friend.

  Bet you didn’t know a bird handler was called a fancier. Well neither did I, but considering how much time I’ve spent alone in this apartment the last—looking down at my watch—forty and a half hours, Google has become my friend.

  Sitting down on my rolling desk chair, I cruise back to the window and kick my feet up on the sill. Isabella sure did a number on my life. Like a tornado, she came. She destroyed everything in her path, and then fizzled back out. Now I’m left with a big disastrous mess to clean up and I have absolutely no idea where to start.

  Two rotations on my chair later, I sit up and pull my phone from pocket. I’m going to try one more time. If she doesn’t answer I won’t be able to avoid her not so subtle hints anymore. If she doesn’t answer this time, it’s time to move on without her. It rings three times before it goes to voicemail, my heart sinking even lower. I hear the message that I’ve become too familiar with, “Hi, this is Virginia. Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message after the beep or if we’re friends or family, text me instead because I hate checking voice messages.” She laughs at her own joke, and I smile because I miss hearing it. “Take care. Bye.”

  The beep is heard, and I stall because I want to lay my heart on the line like I did for my parents the other day, but she’s not even texting me, much less talking to me. “Happy birthday, Virginia.” I’m not sure what else to say and I’m sure while I’m having this massive debate, it’s getting creepier to listen to the silence as it spreads, so I just say, “I miss you.”

  I hang up and set the phone down. It rings and I jump, answering as fast as my heart races. “Hey.”

  “Are we staying closed tonight?”

  Not the voice I was hoping to hear. Romeo. “Yeah. It’s not safe for people to be out. I don’t want to encourage it.”

  “All right,” he says, and I can tell he has a smile on his face. “I’ll just stay in bed the rest of the day.” I think I hear kissing noises.

  Fuck my life. “We’re open the day after Christmas.”

  “Cool.”

  “Don’t be late. Bye.” I disconnect the call as quickly as I can before I’m stuck listening to him have sex with whomever he’s with.

  Sex.

  Sex.

  Sex.

  Man, do I miss it. Why did I stop doing it? It’s not like I didn’t have a ton of offers over the last three or four weeks. Virginia didn’t stop crushing, as she calls it, on that asshole lawyer, so why did I stop hooking up? Missed opportunities. Some lost, some are like a bar tab the women leave open, hoping I will finally say yes.

  Maybe that’s what I need. I need to say yes. I’m damn moody these days and that’s probably not helping. I know my hand isn’t. Righty takes the edge off of Big Richard, but he’s never truly satisfied like he is after good hard fuck. Picking my phone up again, I scroll through some numbers. It’s snowing hard. Everyone is home because the city has closed down. I’ve got my pick of the pretty kitties tonight, so whom should I choose?

  ***There never was a choice. As much as I don’t like liars, I had become one of the best. When I finally started telling myself the truth, there was nowhere else I could go.

  Trudging through the snow, the blizzard blinding my way at some points, I would be there for Virginia. Friend, foe, lover, despite the snow, I would go. I couldn’t resist the rhyme, but at least it has reason. Being cold like this makes you loopy so I was reciting rhymes and the presidents again, but this time, not to keep my dick down. The freezing temperatures were doing a good job of that, but to keep my mind sharp.

  No taxis.

  No buses.

  No subways.

  No bikes.

  No pedicabs.

  Nothing. Nothing but a pair of snow boots with three pairs of socks underneath, those too tight on the three amigos down below, long johns, jeans, and waterproof jogging pants. I had so many shirts on, a college sweatshirt, and my coat that I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. The scarf, hat, gloves, and earmuffs just added to the sexy I wasn’t pulling off at all. But this isn’t about looks or sex, but I see how you might have thought that this whole time. Nope, it wasn’t about those things at all. They’re shallow pursuits and something I pursued often—PMV.

  After three hours, I’m finally standing in two feet of unplowed snow in Lower Manhattan solid in the conviction that the only thing I want to pursue is Virginia Ryan. Continuing my journey to her Mecca, I see a beacon of hope up ahead. My pace picks up and when I approach I look in through the window. It’s not a mirage. It’s real. And it’s open. Coffffeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Get in my belly and warm my bones. There’s a line because apparently New York has a lot of other dumbasses like me who disregard weather warnings and still venture out. But maybe they’re trying to work their way to the women of their dreams too. Fine. I take it back. They’re not dumbasses. They’re just in love. Which is kind of similar when you think about it too long. I choose not to and step up to order a coffee instead.

  After placing my order, I step off to the side to check emails, texts, and hoping to have heard from her. I haven’t. She’s off fucking the asshole, giving up something she used to value all because I made her feel cheap. Yup, me. Not Isabella. She was a catalyst to the catastrophe, but it comes down to me. I didn’t tell Virginia how I felt. I didn’t tell her that I don’t want to be with anyone else. I didn’t tell her I stopped fucking around the night I started fucking around with her. I didn’t tell her to be with me instead of Lowry.

  And I should have.

  Not because she’s a chick and chicks need to hear it, but because it’s the truth. My truth and that holds more coffee than this sixteen-ounce cup. I take the bag with the treat I bought and head back out into the snow.

  Four more blocks and I finally make it to her building. Barry opens the door, tips his cap, and says, “Did you brave the elements alone?”

  “For too long,” I reply not referring to the weather. “I’m hoping to change that.” I step inside the lobby. The lights are dimmer than usual, letting the holiday lights on the tree and around the desk shine brighter.

  Stepping behind the tall counter, his gaze goes down, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Ms. Ryan isn’t here right now.”

  There’s this sickness, this ball that grows when I think about Virginia and the asshole together. I know she cancelled with me saying she was going to meet him, but that stupid little emotion named hope has stayed the course with me, hanging out in the most unlikely of places—my heart—since she walked out. I don’t know. Maybe I was naïve to think she wouldn’t go through with it. She doesn’t owe me anything. Not her heart, nor her virginity. But damn it, that doesn’t mean I didn’t want both. I’m a guy for fuck’s sake.

  But if I can’t have the latter, I want the former and I’ll take it without hesitation. Her heart’s what matters. I can’t give her the other so if she goes through with it with the asshole, I’ll still be here
just like I promised.

  Resting my hands on the counter, I ask, “Do you mind if I wait?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Richard.”

  “Hardy.”

  “Hardy,” he repeats with a tight expression that shows me he knows what’s up. “Bourbon?”

  “What?”

  He holds up a flask. “If you’d like, I’ve got something that might take the edge off.”

  “I could use something to warm me up.”

  “Edge, not the chill, but it will do a good job of both.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “That and that you’re here in the middle of a blizzard and she’s out there. Missed connections.” He hands me the flask.

  I take a shot. It’s the cheap shit, but I’ll take it. After one more gulp, I give it back. He follows with a shot of his own. I start to say, “I think I’m in lov—”

  His hands go up. “Sorry, Hardy. I’m a doorman, not a bartender. Save your troubles for someone who can give you good advice.”

  “I’m a bartender.”

  Nodding, he laughs. “You’re screwed then. If you don’t have the answers, the rest of us are screwed too.”

  “I make cocktails.” I lean against the counter. “I don’t solve the worlds problems.”

  “Seems you can’t solve your own either.”

  “Give me that flask.”

  He pulls it back out from under the desk and hands it to me. While I drink, he says, “I’m twice divorced and just got dumped last week. I’m not so keen on the love story anymore.”

  Putting the cap on the steel bottle, I give it back and then take my gloves off. “I never was and then . . . it just kind of hit me.”

  “Blindsided,” he adds, nodding.

  “Yeah, like a tackle to the heart.”

  “But more violent.”

  I chuckle. “Guess we’ll see on that one. But I’m here.”

  “In a snowstorm no less.”

  “Ready to see if we even have a story.”

  “It’s not about the story, the hows, whys, or wheres. It’s about the ending. This is your chance to write the ending you want.”

  He’s right. Like the bourbon, he’s hitting me right in the feels.

  ***Barry’s drunk. He’s been on the phone for the last forty-five minutes with his girlfriend. At one point he told her, “I don’t want caviar. I’m happy with fish sticks . . . No, not that you’re fish sticks. I didn’t mean that. I meant I love you. Let’s go to Atlantic City for New Year’s and get married.”

  He’s gone and done it now. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I stand. It’s after eight. The sun never came out and the pitch black of a sunshine-less world settled in. I try not to think it’s an omen, but Virginia’s still not home. That little doorstopper of hope that was holding my heart wide open for her has begun to slide closed.

  Picking up my scarf, I wrap it around my neck and slip on my coat. I put my gloves on and walk to the desk. “I guess I’m gonna go.”

  He says into the phone, “Let me call you back, Dolores . . . I will. Right back. I love you too.” When he hangs up, he comes around and stands at the door. No one has come or gone for hours, much to his delight and the detriment of my idea of this great reunion. He turns to me. His eyes are glazed, his hat left back at the desk. His top button is open and his gloves are off. “You can’t get far in this weather, at night.”

  “I’ll get a hotel the next block over.”

  We both stand there, staring through the glass. There seems to be a small break in the snowfall, so I take the opportunity to leave. “Will you tell her I stopped by and give this to her?”

  He takes the bag from me. “I will.”

  Patting him on the back, I say, “Congrats on the engagement, and thanks for the bourbon.”

  “You’re welcome, Hardy. Happy holidays.”

  I pull on my hat, and when he opens the door, I walk back into the cold, dark night. “Happy holidays.”

  The door is closed and I head back the way I came. There’s no traffic and fewer people out, but it’s peaceful even if my heart is in turmoil. I lower my head when the snow starts up again. Crossing the street, I keep walking, thinking about what I’m going to order from room service. I’m starving after the trek I’ve done—my body physically exhausted and my mind emotionally tired. At the corner, I try to decide which way to go to the closest hotel.

  “Hardy?”

  Looking up, standing not even ten feet away is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. My heart starts to pound, trying to reach her. “Virginia.”

  She stands there, and with each tentative step I take, her face comes into focus. Black lines streak her face, wet hair sticking to her forehead. She’s got no hat and no gloves. She’s got no sweet pink to her cheeks that I’ve always loved. But she carries something stronger in her eyes, something devastating, something that stops the pounding in my chest, and shatters my heart. When I reach her, she starts to cry, and says, “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I once knew this girl.

  Pretty. So pretty it hurt sometimes.

  Smart. Whip smart and clever. She always kept me on my banter toes.

  Shy with the world, but bold with me.

  It wasn’t that long ago that I met her, only a month or so, but long enough to know. This is not that same girl before me.

  I close the gap and wrap my arms around her as tight as I can. Her jaw is chattering and she’s freezing cold. Her body is wracked with sobs as if she’s held in a lifetime of pain. “We need to get you inside.”

  When I start to turn, she frantically grabs for my arms. “Hardy, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Holding in my own lifetime of chaotic emotions that’s built up since the day I met her, I run my thumbs over her cheeks, wanting the black gone from her sweet face. Then I reach into my pocket and pull out her gloves. I thought she’d be happy to have them but she bursts into tears again. “Why are you so nice?” she asks, her tone tingeing on anger. “I don’t deserve it.”

  She slips the gloves on and I take my beanie off and pull it down on top of her head, making sure to cover her ears. “Let’s talk about that when we’re inside. You’ll be sick if we stay out here much longer.” She concedes with a nod. I wrap my arm around her and we walk back to her building.

  We’re greeted with a mile wide drunken smile. “Merry Christmas Eve, Ms. Ryan. Hardy, good to see you found what you were looking for.”

  “It took a while and I made a few detours, but it’s good to finally reach my destination.”

  He rushes behind the counter to get something. When he reaches us at the elevator, he hands them to us. “Here’s a tissue for you, Ms. Ry—”

  “Virginia. Please call me Virginia.

  With a smile that borders on permanent, he hands me the treat bag from the coffee shop. “You can give it to her yourself now.”

  “Thanks, Barry. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. May I suggest both of you stay indoors and ride this storm out.”

  This is where I’m going to need a whole helluva lot of credit. I couldn’t have asked for a better setup. But even I know there’s a time and place and this isn’t the time or the place.

  Virginia’s eyes meet mine, and she asks me, “Will you stay, through the storm?”

  Taking her hand in mine, I lean down and kiss her cheek. “We can weather the storm together.” The doors to the elevator open, and we step on. “Good night, Barry.”

  “Good night.”

  She moves closer and leans her head on my arm, our hands clasped together. We both stare at the counter as the floors tick by. Every swallow is thick and loud and I know she can feel my heart beating unsteady, unsure of where we are, and what’s to come for us.

  On her floor we still hold hands until we’re inside her warm apartment. The door is locked and we strip off the heavier layers. No one is breaking the quiet moments that weave between us, both of our nerves showin
g in our unease. She turns, but I take possession of her hand again, and stop her. “Hey?”

  Her eyes fixate on me, the questions there.

  “You’re cold,” I add. “Come with me.”

  Like me, she’s either too tired or too cold to fight, and she follows without argument. Turning on the shower, I make sure to turn on the hot water. She stands behind and if I didn’t know better, I could swear her gaze smacked my ass a few times as she ogled it. Catching her in the act, I say, “See something you like?”

  She laughs until a dark guilt settles into the sound and with a sigh, she says, “I don’t deserve you or your forgiveness.”

  “Sure you do. I’m a very forgiving person.” I lean against the wall close to her and I hate that I need to know, but I need to know the full story for when I’m taken into interrogation over the murder of the asshole for hurting her. “I don’t like holding grudges. I like to move on, so let’s move on together. Get in the shower. It will warm you up and then tell me what I need to forgive you for?”

  When she doesn’t move, I turn my back. “I won’t peek.”

  I can’t hear her clothes coming off. Two weeks ago I would have never given her this courtesy. I’m a fucking perv sometimes. But now, with all that’s happened, I’m willing to give her the space she needs if it means we can write a different ending to our story.

  The shower door is closed, the frosted glass protecting her from peeping Hardy eyes. A moan is heard, and then she says, “This feels amazing. God, I thought I would freeze out there.”

  Flipping the toilet lid down, I sit. “I’ll make you something to eat when you get out.”

  “You know what would make this even more amazing?”

  “What?” The door cracks open and I’m starting to recognize the girl I know, the one that smiles at me like she’s doing now, making each heartbeat feel heavy with the insta-love the hipster told me about.

  “If you joined me.”

  I’m not sure if she even finished the sentence before my pants hit the floor. Her eyes go wide. “Compression pants?”