Rush (Gods #2)(17)

Hands on his desk, he pushes to his feet. His face is tight with anger.  "My loyalty isn't with you? Right, so it wasn't me who pulled you out of  the mess you'd gotten yourself into. Got you in rehab. Got you cleaned  up. Gave you this job. News flash: all me, Ari, whether you like it or  not."

"Yeah, you saved my ass! Well done, you. But where the hell were you  when I needed you after Mom died? Before she even died, when things were  bad at home?" I slam my hand to my chest. My face is hot. I shouldn't  be saying these things, but I can't seem to stop. "On the football  field! That's where you were. Where you always are! So, let's not  pretend like you didn't do it out of anything but obligation and to get a  handle on the bad press it could bring to you. Not because you actually  give a shit."

His eyes darken. "I give a shit, Ari."

"Like you did with Mom."

He looks like I just slapped him.

It was a low blow, and I know it, but I'm angry and hurt, and I don't care right now.

I grab my bag from the floor and walk out of his office, slamming the door behind me.

My eyes are stinging as I descend the stairs.

Don't cry. Don't cry.

I don't stop when I reach the bottom step. I walk straight through the  lobby and past the reception desk where Marissa, the receptionist, is  talking on the phone. I hide my face behind my curtain of hair, and I  walk out of the building.

Fortunately, Patrick isn't at the security gate, so I don't have to stop and talk to him about why I'm leaving early.

And I keep walking as it starts to rain, and the irony isn't lost on me  right now. And I guess it won't matter if I cry. No one will be able to  tell the difference. So, I let the tears fall.

I intend to stop at the bus stop, but when I reach it, I keep walking.

And I keep on walking right into town.

And straight into the first bar I see.





"How's it going?" Luke takes the stool next to me, resting his arms on the bar top.

"I've been better," I answer quietly.

My arms are on the bar, chin resting on them, my eyes fixed on the glass of wine sitting on the bar in front of me.

I called Luke five minutes after I ordered the wine. He told me to sit  tight, and he'd be there soon. He wasn't kidding. That was twenty  minutes ago, and he lives in the city. He must've broken all the speed  laws to get here.

"I haven't drunk any," I tell him, my eyes still fixed on the wine glass, seeing the distorted reflection of my face in it.

My real face.

"I know," he says gently.

"I want to though."

"I know that, too."

I let out a sad-sounding sigh.

"Do you want me to get rid of it?" he asks.

"Not … yet." My eyes slide to his. "I'm not going to drink it, but … " I trail off. I'm not ready to let go yet.

"I know," he says in understanding. "If you were going to drink that  wine, you would have done it by now, and you definitely wouldn't have  called me. Trust me; I know."

Luke is eight years sober-drugs and drink. He's in his early thirties. A  self-made millionaire. He owns a tech company. Nearly lost it all on  drugs, alcohol, and women. It took an overdose that nearly killed him to  wake him up.

"I'm sorry to have dragged you here."

"Don't be. You know the rules. Never be sorry for asking for help. I'm  your sponsor. This is what I'm here to do-help you when you need it.  And, Ari, you're seven months clean, and this is my first call to a bar  from you. I'd say, you're doing great."

I snort out a dry laugh. "Only you would say I'm doing great when I'm sitting in a bar with a glass of wine in front of me."

"I see the positive in everything. I'm a ray of sunshine. What can I say?"

I laugh again; there's still no humor in it.

"So"-he props his chin on his hand-"you want to talk about it?"

I shake my head.

"Okay. So, what do you want to do?"

"Drink." I throw him a wry grin.

"You're a comedian."

"I do try."

"Just don't give up your day job."

The bartender appears, asking Luke, "What can I get you?"

"Diet Coke, for me, and one for her, too. And, if you could get rid of the wine, it'd be appreciated."                       
       
           



       

"Killjoy," I mutter as the wine is moved from my line of sight by the bartender.

"I know. I'm sensible and boring."

We don't speak for a while. Our Diet Cokes are placed in front of us. Luke pays for them.

He's waiting me out. Waiting for me to talk.

He doesn't have to wait long. I fold like a cheap suit.

I let out a sigh. "I had a fight with my dad. A big one."

"Okay. What about?"

I sigh again and tilt my chin in his direction, eyes looking at him. "Ares … the guy I told you about."

"Your dad's quarterback."

"Mmhmm."

"You know he's been driving me to and from work after what happened with Kyle."

"And I agree with Ares that you should consider getting a restraining  order against Kyle and also that you should tell your dad."

I sigh, shaking my head. "Well, my dad doesn't like me spending time with Ares."

"Why? The guy's a friend, right? And a positive influence, by the sound of it."

"My dad doesn't want me spending time with him … for Ares's sake, not mine."

"Oh."

"He thinks it'll be detrimental to Ares's reputation-you know, the  coach's screwed up daughter hanging with the star quarterback. He  doesn't want the negative press. Not with the season about to start."

"He said that?"

"In not so many words … but yeah. Then, I got angry and said some shitty things to him about my mom."

"Were they true?"

I meet his steady green gaze. "Yes."

"Then, don't feel bad for saying them. You know that I think you should  tell your dad how you feel about him not being there when you were  younger, when you needed him. I'm not saying, if he'd been there, you  wouldn't have started drinking-no one can say that-but he let you down  when you needed him most, Ari."

"According to him, he was there when it mattered most-after the crash, when I hit rock bottom."

"Putting a loved one in rehab and bailing their ass out isn't being  there. It's doing something proactive and right to help them. But being  there is about giving them your time and listening when they need it.  Your dad doesn't do that. In the past, with your mom, he ignored the  problem because he didn't know how to handle it, and he left you to deal  with it. He couldn't leave you to deal with this, and there was no one  else to do it, so he's had to step up, but he's not doing enough. He  should be doing more."

My eyes are stinging with tears. I can't speak because, if I do, they'll  spill over. I take a sip of Diet Coke and try to steady my emotions.

"Shall we get out of here?" Luke says.

I nod, and he slides off his stool. I pick up my bag and clamber down from mine.

My legs tremble as I follow him outside to his car, a sporty bright blue BMW.

He unlocks it, using the key fob, and I get in on the passenger side. He climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine.

"Where am I taking you?" he asks me.

"We could hit up a club." I give him a sad-looking grin, letting out an empty laugh. "Home," I say quietly.

I don't really want to go home to my empty apartment. But I don't have anywhere else to go.

I put my seat belt on, and Luke pulls the car out onto the street.

We're only a few minutes out of town, heading for the city, when I  remember that I'm supposed to be going to the cinema with Ares tonight.

God, I can't go out with him, not while I'm feeling like this.

And I don't want him to know how close I was to drinking today.

He'd be disappointed in me, and I couldn't bear that. It'd probably tip me over the edge.

I get out my phone from my bag and tap out a text to him.

Hey, I'm gonna have to bail on tonight. Sorry. Left work early, as I'm not feeling well. Rain check?

While I wait for him to text back, I run a hand through my hair, and it  gets stuck in the tangles. On my phone, I switch the camera to selfie  mode to look at my hair.

I almost scream when I see myself.

Mascara and eye makeup are smudged under both my eyes. I look like a panda. And my hair is a damp, knotted mess.

I look like I used to the morning after a heavy drinking session.

"Jesus Christ!" I whine. "I look a mess!"

"Yep." Luke nods, chuckling.

"Thanks a lot! You could've told me that I looked like this when you  came into the bar," I complain, trying to rub the mess away from under  my eyes.

"Sorry." He shrugs. "But I didn't want to push you over the edge by  telling you that you looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. I figured  you'd have downed that wine in one go if I'd told you. I know I would've  if I'd been in public, looking like you do right now."