Absinthe Of The Heart

by Monica James

  “What is this place?” I cup my hand and shout into Chloe’s ear. The place is packed. The energy pulsating through the air.

  “Absinthe of the Heart,” she replies, but she may as well have spoken to me in Swahili.

  “Huh?” I scrunch up my nose, turning to look at her. She laughs and shakes her head. In response, she yanks me by the elbow and leads me to the bar. I don’t protest as I’m still reeling in the potency of this place.

  Granted, I haven’t been a big party animal, but this place is pretty incredible. With the right balance of sex and sass, this has to be one of the hottest places in L.A. The line moves quickly thanks to the practiced bartenders who flip, shake, and pour their drinks with skill.

  One girl in particular catches my eye because she’s just one of those women who have an air of confidence about her. Her two sizes too small white Metallica tank met with unfortunate circumstances because it’s coarsely ripped and sits just below her breasts, which look like flotation devices. Her midriff is completely exposed, showcasing a dangly belly button ring and some kind of floral tattoo leading up her side.

  Her hair is jet black and convenes like a mane around her pointed face. Her makeup is heavy-handed, and her glossy, collagen-infused lips look like a flapping hot dog bun as she talks to the patron who is not so discreetly checking out her ass cheeks, which spill from her barely there black shorts.

  I suddenly feel overdressed.

  Chloe bops to the music, thriving on the energetic vibe. When it’s our turn to order, Chloe smirks. “What’s your poison?”

  Scanning the wall, I tap my chin, suddenly feeling daring. “Dirty martini.”

  Chloe expresses her delight at my choice of drink by bouncing on the spot. Those killer pumps don’t seem to hinder her bopping. “I’ll have the same!” she yells, leaning over the counter so the bartender can hear her. Thankfully, the woman behind the bar is a little more dressed than her co-worker to her left.

  As I scan the room for a table, a sudden blanket of uneasiness drapes over me. I physically shake my head to clear the fog because I have no idea what has come over me. It’s hot in here, as it’s packed to capacity, but this warmth comes from deep within.

  Chloe passes me my drink. I lunge for it like an addict seeking out her next fix and throw it back in one gulp. She cocks an eyebrow and purses her lips. “Another, thanks!” she shouts at the bartender, waving off her change.

  I steal the glass from her hand and knock back her martini too. “And two tequilas!”

  Offering the empty glass, I pull an apologetic face. “Sorry. I have no idea why I just did that.”

  She giggles, looping her hand around my shoulder and drawing me in close. “It’s okay. This place has that effect on people.”

  “No kidding,” I mumble, the vodka going straight to my head and killing at least a dozen brain cells.

  A shift crackles in the air, and I swipe at the back of my neck, which is dotted with perspiration. I can’t shake this feeling of…momentous change of epic proportions. My stomach clenches into a tightened knot of dismay, but the undertone is stronger—it’s desire.

  What on god’s green earth would cause me to burn up like I’m knocking on the gates of hell?

  The music changes, the lights dim, and the alcohol goes straight to my head. I clutch the bar for support, afraid I’m about to face plant and not ever get back up. Chloe’s concerned voice sounds in the background, but my attention is suddenly riveted on the doorway as I turn to stake it out over my shoulder.

  “Animals” by Maroon 5 suddenly blares over the speakers, setting the stage for what’s to come. I can’t stand still, so I spin and crane my neck to peer over the bouncing heads of people busting a move on the dance floor, but they part like the Red Sea, because what or who just walked through the door is of biblical proportions.

  The room begins spinning and the walls close in on me. I…can’t…fucking…breathe.

  The lyric of being eaten alive is my spirit animal because I’m certain a fire is about to consume me whole. The flames lick at my epicenter, and my heart explodes from the confines of my chest.

  Every moment before this suddenly pales in comparison, because all I can focus on is the man who steals every breath I take and replaces it with nothing but constant craving. I don’t even know what I’m thirsting after, because every part of me is desperate to flee, but I can’t move.

  Just how I remember, he turns every head in the room, his confidence almost suffocating, but his magnetic pull is intoxicating, and like addicts, we’re all hooked.

  Snug blue jeans sit low on his hips, the denim at both knees ripped. An ashy gray Harley Davidson t-shirt, which complements his black biker boots, showcases his upper body bulk, as it’s tight and clings to him like a second skin. Tattoos run down the length of both taut arms, the colorful ink coming to life under the bright fluorescents. His shoulder width goes on for days, hinting that beneath that shirt lies a well-defined, muscular landmine.

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I lift my gaze and sag against the bar because that face, his face…I’d almost forgotten it had the ability to render me speechless. Although it’s changed slightly since I last saw it, covered in a dark, heavy scruff and matured with years of wisdom and experience, when I look into those eyes, those stormy blue eyes of promise and punishment, I know that beneath those layers is the man I love to hate…or hate to love…the line suddenly blurs.

  His hair is shorter on the sides, the longer strands at the top flicked and styled into whatever way the dirty blond strands fall. He still carries that air of arrogance on his shoulders and stirs the longing which I thought long dead.

  As if some rock star just walked through the door, everyone mills around the entrance, waiting for their turn to talk to the hometown hero. He nods and smirks, that lopsided grin kicking me in the solar plexus and replaying a moving picture of every single time he smiled at me.

  When he runs his long fingers through his mussed hair, another punch leaves me winded, and I recall the way those fingers felt on me…inside me.

  Sweet baby Jesus…I need to leave…like now.

  Sadly, he’s standing in front of my salvation, so I turn around so quickly, I topple to the left. Thankfully, Chloe is there, and I lean against her, hoping my mini meltdown goes unnoticed. My body is a traitorous whore because memories of what he did to me and how he ruined my life float to the surface, and that is the only thing I should be remembering.

  “Holland, are you all right?” Chloe backs up, probably terrified my crazy is contagious. I nod, too afraid to speak. Reaching for the tequila, I toss it back, not bothering with the garnishing. “Want to sit?”

  Yes, I want to sit…on the moon because I can’t stay in here with him…with London Sinclair…a second longer. Even thinking his name has me feeling like I’ve just committed the ultimate sin.

  She doesn’t wait for me to reply; instead, she loops her arm through mine and leads me through the crowd. I instantly sink low, wishing I could slide along the floor and slither out the door. How the fuck am I going to escape undetected?

  The throngs of people don’t help with my sudden claustrophobia, and I spread my arms out, needing space. I have no doubt Chloe thinks I’ve gone completely nuts, but this is my something like normal because the fact I’m not rocking in a corner is a miracle in itself.

  We find a booth near the back of the room. I dive into it, sinking low. Chloe has two beers, and both are calling my name, but I remember my manners and graciously accept one.

  “So tell me everything,” she says, propping her foot underneath her knee, poised and ready for the juicy details.

  The distraction might be nice, but I’m on high alert, peering around as if we’re stranded on a capsized boat surrounded by hungry sharks. “There isn’t much to tell. I graduated, went to Stanford, and found myself. During my journey, Lincoln and I crossed paths. We’ve been together for about five years.” Or has it been six? I suddenly can’t reme
mber. “We live in New York. I’m an attorney, and Lincoln works on Wall Street.” I know I’m talking a million miles a minute, but I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll have to face the fact that I’m sitting in the same room as London.

  “Wow, you guys have lived quite a life.” We have? “I still live in Beverly Hills with my mom,” she reveals, as if that pales in comparison to my life.

  “Home is where the heart is, Chloe,” I tenderly state. I’m not here to pass judgment. We’ve both had enough of that over the course of our lives.

  Her face softens, and I can see her guard shift. We aren’t in high school anymore, and I never want her to feel like she has to be anyone but herself.

  “When did you guys get engaged?”

  Raising the Budweiser to my lips, I take a quick swig before replying. “Not long ago. That’s why we’re back. Our families want the big traditional wedding.” I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.

  She nods with a laugh. “My mom would be the same. I haven’t met Mr. Right just yet, but when I do, I have no doubt the queen and her kinsman will be invited.”

  Chloe’s humor takes my mind off the dilemma at hand, but when “Marry Me” by Bruno Mars comes on, Chloe shoots up, lunging for my arm. “I love this song! Come dance with me.”

  I shake my head hastily, as there is no way I’m moving from this spot—ever. This song choice is also adding to the nerves. She blows a raspberry and sashays off on her own, not bothered that she’s dancing among strangers.

  The moment she’s sandwiched between two guys, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and liberate my lungs. Sadly, my heart doesn’t have the same reprieve because it fucking aches. I pensively rub over it.

  Feeling a little braver, I sit up taller and scan the room. I know he’s in here. I can feel him. Every fiber of my body is pulsating, unable to keep up with the chaos which is rattling me to the very core. Everyone is in party mode, the drinks and conversations flowing freely. It’s jam-packed, so I can’t see him, but when the music fades and is replaced with The Killers “Mr. Brightside,” nothing has been clearer.

  Somehow, the sea of people parts, leaving behind a path which leads to sin. London is casually slouched back against the bar, both elbows behind him. He doesn’t seem to care he’s propped in the middle of swarms of patrons, taking up vital space, because all he seems to care about is me.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and grip the leather beneath me because I’m seconds from sliding into a messy heap with no chance of recovering anytime soon. I haven’t felt this way in so very long.

  The lyrics drum in time with my heart because they ring true. It started with a kiss, but that kiss set the wheels in motion for an abysmal trainwreck, one which feels like it’s picking up speed once again.

  I want to break eye contact because that slow, cocky smirk tugging at his bow lips reveals he knows…he knows he still affects me in ways he shouldn’t, but I can’t look away. I appreciate the way his muscular, commanding presence is akin to a lion stalking its prey.

  I’m pinned by that stormy gaze, but I deadpan him, as I’ll be damned if I back down and be the lesser man. I won’t allow him to make me feel like that ever again.

  This could continue for days, because neither of us appears intent on breaking eye contact, but I refuse to look away. I’m not the seventeen-year-old little girl he once took advantage of. I’ve dealt with bigger, badder bastards than him, and I would rather cut off my own arm than let him win—again.

  I sit up, turning around completely so we’re staring at one another face on. He makes no secret that he’s appreciating the full frontal view, and a small part of me high fives my ego because I know I look good, but so does he.

  He’s completely rugged and wayward, but his badass look isn’t staged—he is the epitome of what every bad boy strives to become when they grow up. He always has been. I lick my suddenly dry lips, and London follows the movement with a smirk.

  The air is charged with an undeniable pull and so is every part of my body. The rational part of me is screaming to get up and go, and forget I ever met this man, but the part I’ve kept under lock and key for ten years demands vengeance and believes it’s time to settle the score.

  Throwing back the remainder of my beer, I slide across the booth and straighten out my skirt with no real hurry to my step. London never wavers from me, watching with interest as I stand, my chest rising and falling, the adrenaline punching a hole straight through me.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk toward him, my pace measured, my head held high. He shifts to stand taller but still doesn’t move an inch. He draws a glass to his lips, his Adam’s apple bopping as the brown liquid slides down his throat. I keep stalking toward him because the hunter has just become the prey.

  People somehow move when they see me coming, probably sensing World War Three is seconds from erupting and they don’t want to be anywhere near me when it does. I gently push past a couple, who look up at me and then back at London. They instantly huddle off to the side, ready for the smackdown from hell.

  The moment I’m a few steps away, his familiar fragrance of warm cinnamon and trouble whacks straight into me, cementing me to the spot. I have waited so very long for this moment. I’ve dreamed of it often. But our reunion would never be a happy one.

  London Sinclair didn’t just break my heart; he fucking set it on fire and threw the ashes to the wind. I loved him, and in return, he danced on my grave.

  The music blaring around me and the throbbing memories animate me, and I take one step, then two, until we’re inches apart. My heels give me some leverage, but he still towers over me. Looking up at him, I quash down the urge to caress his face to ensure he’s real.

  He’s changed so much, yet he’s still the same.

  I examine every curve of his face, marveling at the vastness of his blue eyes. He allows me to visually molest him, standing coolly, not caring that we’re in everyone’s way.

  I want to say so many things, but where do I start?

  But London and I, we were never good with words. And now is no exception.

  Reaching for the glass which sits loosely in his fingers, I pay no attention to the absolute yearning I feel when my thumb brushes over his. Drawing the glass to my lips, I toss back the bitter contents, the burn welcomed because I need the pain to remind me that this man will only be able to offer me that.

  He watches my every move, that fucking smile still tugging at his lips. I wonder just how many times he smiled when thinking about what he did. He won…well, I hope it was worth it.

  With a slow, calculated speed, I lean forward, purposely pressing my body into his as I place the empty glass on the bar behind him. A small victory for me when he hisses low.

  But I intend on finally taking back what’s mine.

  He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to say some smartass remark or rub salt in the still raw wounds, but I’m done. I’m done with him, and I’m done with this constant need to seek him out in a crowd.

  This is goodbye for good.

  Years of anger explode from me, and before I can question myself and the repercussions of my actions, I raise my hand and slap that smug smile from his face. The whack can be heard above the rock music, but the sting in my hand is worth it because it can never compare to the pain he’s caused me.

  His head snaps back as he cups his reddening cheek, but when he meets my eyes, nostrils flared, breaths heavy, he nods once.

  We’re even…

  My hand trembles by my side and tears threaten to break through the floodgates soon, but with my dignity in tow, I turn and leave, and this time, it’s for good.

  “Oh, Sweetie, is your hand okay?” I don’t even realize I’m cradling it until my mom asks me for the third time today.

  We’re on our way to Sienna’s, Chloe’s mom’s bridal boutique, but it goes without saying that shopping is the furthest thing from my mind. My heart is still lodged in my throat after last night, and I doubt it’ll dislodge anytime soon.


  After I escaped Absinthe of the Heart, which now takes on a whole different meaning, I caught a cab back to my parents’ and was secretly thankful Lincoln decided to stay with his friends. I went to bed, hoping I’d pass out, but I didn’t. I stared up at the ceiling for hours, wondering what happens now.

  I’ve finally given London a piece of my mind—so why do I feel so empty inside? Could it be because last night was the first time I’ve felt…alive…in so long? The irony of that statement is not lost on me.

  Lincoln and I have never had a raging sex life, but I understand the basis of a good, solid relationship isn’t the physical part but rather the emotional. He understands me and respects that I’m not interested in swinging from the rafters and calling him Big Daddy.

  At first, I felt like he was resentful that London stole something from him which didn’t belong to anyone but me, but then I realized I was just paranoid because not everyone felt how I did. In the beginning, sex between us was awkward, to say the least, because the only other person I could compare it to was someone I wished to forget.

  Sex with Lincoln is… nice. I don’t have the toe-curling big O’s, but I learned quickly enough you can’t have it all. We are in a stable, loving partnership, and I’ll happily sacrifice the wild monkey sex and butterflies for what we have. I had a taste of that, and all it left me with was heartburn.

  I remind myself of that fact when a flutter of butterflies takes flight even thinking London’s name.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, looping my arm through Mom’s. I need to forget about last night because I can finally put the matter to rest. “I haven’t even thought about what kind of dress I want to wear.” My mom squeezes my arm, letting out a small, excited squeak.

  When we round the corner and are confronted with a swirly pink neon sign, I know that this dilemma is soon to be put to rest, because this store is every bride’s dream…on steroids.

  The bell above the door chimes jovially as we enter. Looking around Sienna’s, my cheeks puff out with my trapped breath. There is so much white—the floors, walls, the hundreds of dresses suspended from hangers around the room. A small red podium dead center with white leather couches arched around it. This is obviously where one is to parade the bridal catwalk for her friends.