Devil You Know(49)

I watched Jane all night: the way her hips moved, the way she twisted her arms over her head, and closed her eyes as the music took her. I watched the way she did that tip to the left thingy when she smiled at Bronx. I watched every single detail about the way she spoke to my friends, the air of false confidence she gave off, but I never saw her.

I allowed myself to be fooled by the façade I know she puts up for the world.

Why? Was it easier to play along with the fantasy that she was having a completely carefree night out? How delusional am I? If I put myself in her position, I can only imagine what shit must have been running through her head.

I should have known. She bolted to the ladies as if her life depended on it. Stupid old me chose to take her lie at face value, and believe it was the alcohol. Sure, maybe that was the reason for her to throw up, but I’m pretty fucking positive it was a panic attack that had her so nauseous to start with. The woman was freaking out, and I picked then to be the indifferent asshole I pretend to be, and let her run away.

But in all reality, would she have told me what was bothering her if I had asked? I look at her, softly snoring beside me. Of course she wouldn’t have. How do I know? Because reverse the roles, and would I have told her?

Not at all.

I would have done the same.

I shake my head, and cringe at the harsh reality of it all. What good have I done her? She’s not in danger any more, and she’s even learnt to smile again. But the most important part of her, the ability to feel safe enough to confide in somebody is the part I’m neglecting.

I’ve allowed her to believe that nobody cares enough to help her through the dark shit in her head. I’ve made her feel alone—again.

My flesh chills as I realize the worst part of all—we’re exactly the same.





MY HEAD pounds. I lift my arms up and attempt to rub my temples, but my hands flop somewhere on the pillow beside my head. The night before rushes back like a horror movie, showing me images of drinks, people, and my vomit.

Fuck. What kind of idiot did I make of myself?

I force my eyes open, only to slam them tight. Shit! The light sears into my brain, sparking off a wave of pressure that runs down my neck, and into every limb. Surely the best answer will be a shower—a cold one at that?

I slip my legs off the bed, and keep my eyes shut while I push to stand. My head swims, and before I can register I’m off balance, my shoulder slams into the edge of the nightstand. Curse words fly from my mouth, and I clutch at the pain in my sides.

I’m still fucking drunk.

What exactly did I drink?

I lie on the floor where I’ve ended up, opening my eyes for short bursts every five or so seconds. After a while of doing this, my retinas have adjusted—albeit, still complaining. Attempt number two at standing comes off with more success, and I stumble to the bathroom.

A hand on each side of the doorway, I sway, blinking at the mirror.

In the center, is a note, taped to the glass. I wobble forwards, and snatch it up before falling onto my backside on the closed toilet. Minutes pass before I can focus well enough to read.

Jane,

Didn’t want to leave you on your own, but work called. Back soon.

No sooner than I screw the note up, and groan at the jackhammers going to work in my skull, the front door opens. The sound of Malice talking with Rocco—albeit in a different room—screams like the roar of a jet engine. I brace my head in my hands, and screw my eyes tight.

Make the ache go away.

“Jane? Shit, there you are.”

“Ugh,” I moan out.

“Here. Have these.” Malice hands me a couple of Advil, and a large glass of water.

“I’m sorry, I ruined the night.”

His hands cup the sides of my face. “Listen to me. You didn’t ruin a thing. Okay? I should have taken better care of you.”

I push his hands away, and grimace at the wave of nausea the movement brings on. “Don’t! Stop taking care of me. I’m not a fucking charity case. I’m not a victim,” I wail at him.

My head pounds, and acid rises. I elbow Malice out of the way, and spin around to lift the lid before filling the bowl with—for the most part—bile.

Kill me now.

Hands stroke my hair back, and Malice rubs gentle circles between my shoulders. “You’re not a charity case, Jane. But you are a victim. You’re the victim of a callous asshole of a man who didn’t love what he had. You better start accepting that, otherwise you’ll never be able to stop blaming yourself.”

I cry over the top of my burning cheeks. I don’t want to accept that I’m a victim. I don’t want to feel more of a failure than I do at this moment.

“It’s okay to accept that you don’t have control sometimes.” He sighs. “Just don’t get sucked into blaming yourself, okay?”