So really, it's not just one thing at all. It's everything, and finding that fucking text message with a picture of that girl's fucking tits with her mouth hanging open asking to swallow my boyfriend's jizz was the breaking point.
One last bit of someone screwing with me.
I'd gone to their practice space - this shitty free-standing garage out in Allston - to corner him. I'd gone there to make him fess up to being a piece of shit to my face. But the place had been empty, of course, because they were at the show here tonight.
At the show and getting his cock sucked, apparently.
But the rest of their gear was there. So was the bottle of vodka. So was the pack of cigarettes - Joey's, their drummer, judging from the brand, with his little black plastic zippo lighter sitting next to it.
And so was the old gas tank off to one dusty corner.
I swear, I'm not that girl.
I'm not a psycho.
I'm not that crazy bitch who does crazy shit like this.
But you can only take so much. You can only get so deep into that quarter-life-crisis that when the snap comes, it comes hard. And when it does, you break.
And that's how you find yourself pouring gasoline all over a drum kit, four basses, ten guitars, a sound system and a bunch of amplifiers.
I'm not saying it was rational, but there you have it.
And now I need another drink.
Yoko much?
You're just so wrapped up in your fucking books and your fucking classes that you just don't know what it means to be spontaneous.
I scowl into the beer in my hands, my face scrunched up and my brow furrowed as those two assholes' words tumble through my head.
Fuck Jayson. I can be perfectly spontaneous, thank you very much. Even if I don't count my spontaneous bout of arson earlier - and I'd rather not - I'm not the complete shut-in bookworm he seems to think I am.
Please, I've got it. I can be spontaneous, and fun, and wild, and-
And that's when I look up and see him just as he steps into the bar.
I'd say he's gorgeous, but gorgeous doesn't quite cover it. Gorgeous makes him sound pretty or primped to perfection, and he's neither of those things.
The man is dark and brooding, like a storm cloud rolling onto a shore. He's tall and broad-shouldered, and even though the lighting is terrible in this place, I can still see how dark his hair and his eyes are. The dim light of the place only accentuates the deep shadows across his face - the strong, chiseled jaw, the hollows of his cheeks, the way his brow furrows as he scans the room.
He's across the bar, and when he suddenly looks up, the light catches something fierce and something piercing in his eyes. And mine are hooked on him. My eyes can't seem to look away as they drink in the storm clouds of his face, the lightning in his eyes.
Those utterly perfect lips.
The tattoo ink on his neck, peeking out of the collar of his tight black t-shirt and leather jacket.
My gut clenches and my throat tightens, and I quickly bring the beer to my lips and swallow. My eyes are wide, following him as he effortlessly pushes his way through the crowd.
The man has bad decisions and wonderful regrets written all over his hardened, beautifully grim face.
And something ignites inside of me.
I reach for the shot in front of me and slam it back, feeling the room spin and lurch as I stumble from the bar stool.
Fuck it.
Fuck this place, fuck this night, and fuck Jayson and Max and fuck not being spontaneous enough.
I lurch through the crowd, realizing people are looking at me funny, realizing I'm sure I look as drunk as I feel but not really caring. I push past the final people between us, and then he's right in front of me, his head turned as if looking at something in the back of the room.
My heart skips a beat, but I force myself onward. I stagger up to him and grab his leather jacket. He bristles as he whips his head down to look at me, leveling those piercing, haunting dark eyes at mine.
"Uh, hey," I say it coyly. Or at least, I hope I say it coyly. I hope it doesn't actually sound as completely stupid to him as it sounds to me as it leaves my mouth.
His eyes narrow at me. He says nothing.
Fuck he's tall. Tall and big. Broad chest, broad shoulders, biceps bulging under the sleeves of his jacket.
I swallow.
This was a mistake.
No, it wasn't.
"Yes?" he growls quietly, his thick baritone voice like gravel in my ears.
Fuck that's hot.
I don't know why I think it, and this isn't remotely the kind of man I go for. I go for guys who imitate guys like this - guys who buy their leather jackets at expensive brand name stores, who get meaningless tattoos just to make them look tougher.
This man is the real deal.
He's dangerous looking and criminally attractive in a way that sets off warning bells. Warning bells that I blatantly ignore.
"Um-"
I'm not actually sure what the plan was, beyond storming my way over here like I had a purpose. But then, that's the point, right? To be spontaneous?
The point, there is no plan, not anymore. Because I'm saying no to plans.
And I'm saying yes to crazy, stupid ideas. Ideas like getting drunk and burning my ex-boyfriend's garage down. Or, say, stalking up to random hot guys in bars and kissing them.
Which is exactly what I do next.
He freezes as I yank him down by the t-shirt and mash my lips to his. Freezes, that is, before he comes alive.
I gasp as he responds, his arms slipping around me and pulling me tight to that hard, firm body. My head spins as his perfect, soft lips part, and he growls as his tongue seeks mine hungrily. His stubble tickles my lip, and I find myself opening my mouth for him as he demands entrance.
Holy. Shit.
The crowds disappear, all the bullshit fades away, and the floor drops out beneath me.
It feels like I'm free falling - like I'm not even touching the ground there in his arms as my tongue eagerly seeks his. His hands are strong, one cupping the small of my back and the other firmly on my jaw. And my crazy kiss - my insane and my booze-fueled mistake ends up being the hottest, most toe-curling kiss I've ever had in my life.
And just as fast as I yanked him to my lips, he pulls away, leaving me gasping, my lips still moving as if missing his kiss. I open my eyes, cheeks flushed, and I see him smirk.
"I-"
And I'm completely out of the trance, completely out of my element, and completely at a loss of what to say next. Instead, I turn, and without another crazy word or insane action, I make a beeline for the bathroom.
I catch my breath by the sink, panting and running cold water over my hands.
I'm drunk.
I'm too drunk actually.
I cup my hand beneath the faucet, bringing the water to my lips and swishing it around before spitting it out. It tastes terrible, like old copper pipes.
I yank my phone out of my purse, squinting with one eye shut as I swipe it open and thumb my contacts.
I should call one of my sisters.
Well, except almost everyone's gone - off on vacation together. My parents, my sister Ivy and her husband Silas, both my brothers and their respective significant others - Kyle with his fiancée Vivian, and Rowan and his wife, Eva. Everyone's at the Grand freaking Canyon, like some fucking Chevy Chase movie.
Stella, my oldest sister, is still around, but I can't bother her with this shit. Actually, I haven't been able to bother anyone with this shit, which is why I'm in this free fall. I've spent two months in a tailspin, panicking about my choices in life, and where I'm going, and wasting my time with Jayson and my bizarre new hobby of Pinterest boarding vacation spots - both of them just time-fillers.
But this is rock bottom.
I mean, I just set a garage on fire.
I laugh out loud, still too drunk to be that embarrassed when a girl comes out of one of the stalls and gives me a strange look. I start to type out a message to Stella but I stop.
She doesn't need to hear my sob story. I mean, Stella's the one that dropped out of college and had the kid young, all that shit. I'm the one that stuck to it, made the right choices, picked the right classes, got the right grades, the right friends, the right college, and then the right graduate school. Hell, I still go home on weekends sometimes to have dinner with my parents.
So, there's a reason Stella's always saying I'm the "together" one. Hell, everyone says that which is probably half the problem.
But with all the "right choices", I've got nothing to show for it. Nothing except the anxiety of it all weighing me down, the frozen indecision, and the therapist I haven't called back in two months while I've been basically avoiding classes.
I put the phone away, my shoulders slumping.
I should go.
Outside the bathroom, the crowd starts to go nuts, and I cringe as I hear the guitars start to blare.
Shit.
I'm trying not to think about the fact that starting that fire tonight was a crime - like a serious one, I think.
I open the bathroom door a crack and glance out, seeing the tattooed hipsters cheering and jumping around to Jayson and his band's shitty music. I duck out, but instead of heading back into the bar, I veer down the dark hallway to my left.
No way am I leaving through the bar. I can't face that music -pun unintended.
Instead, I grip the wall with one hand, stumbling on my heels as I slip down the hallway, figuring there has to be a back door.
I try one that's locked, past another that says men's room. I jump out of the way as a bearded guy wearing a Red Sox t-shirt jerks the door open, looking at me quizzically as I whirl and stumble further down the hallway.
I round the corner and spot the final door.
This has to be it.
The walls spin slightly as I stumble down the dark hallway, my stomach churning. I'm getting the hell out of here, getting in a cab, and going home. I'm done with the screaming, and the drinking, and the setting fires, and the kissing gorgeous, dangerously sexy strangers in shitty bars.