Bad Judgment (33 page)

If it weren’t for my fucking mail, I wouldn’t even know my parents are dead. They stole it to make sure whatever Gramps intended for me would go to them.

I am the product of neglect and selfishness. That’s all I’ve ever known. How to take. How to watch out for myself. Is it any wonder that I don’t know how to have a real, functional relationship with anyone?

And then my actions end up putting my boyfriend at risk of killing himself and destroying his future?

I shouldn’t even be allowed to be around people. I’m toxic, just like my parents.

I hate them. Hate what they made me. Hate what I’ve let myself become.

The sobs subside to hiccups, and I’m thankful for the private room I’m in. No one in this hospital needs to see me break down. Then again, no one would care.

Pathetic. I’ve never been more pathetic in my life, and I hate the helplessness I feel.

At least I did one good thing today—every piece of my parents that can be used to save someone else will be donated. But even that act can’t stem the tide of self-loathing within me.

Why can’t I be numb? Why can’t I be anything but what and who I am? I’ve got my knees drawn up in front of me, my arms wrapped around them as I attempt to shrink into myself and escape the pain and the bitter realities of my life.

Alone.
That’s what I am, and that’s all I’m ever going to be.

I’ve been so focused on my goal—Gramps’s goal—giving myself the future I thought I deserved.

But what do I really deserve? Everything I’ve done has been aimed at achieving something wholly selfish—my degree, my success, my future. It’s all been about me.

I’ve been so proud of my own accomplishments, but what are they worth if I have no one to celebrate them with?

My lungs feel as though they’ve been smashed in my chest, and the weight of everything I’ve done is crushing down on me. I need to escape before I suffocate. I need to forget. Even if it’s only for a day. A few hours.

I think I understand how Ryker felt when he decided to drink rather than come to me for the truth.

Well, at least I don’t have a car.
I laugh to myself humorlessly. Unbending from my curled-up position, I suck in a deep breath and rise.

Escape.
That’s what I need. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. For one night, I want to escape this shitty existence that I’m living. Is it really that much to ask?

Ryker

My new phone rings at two in the morning and I grab it immediately, hoping like hell it’s Justine. I’ve been in a state of half sleep, waiting for her call and finding it less and less likely as the minutes ticked by.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ryker. This is Corey Crow. You might not remember me . . .”

I flip through my memory. “Yeah, frat brother. You were a freshman when I graduated?” I think I’ve got it right.

“Yeah, exactly. I’m president of the house now. We’ve got a situation, and your name came up.”

A sense of foreboding blankets the room. “What situation?”

“A couple of guys were out at the bar and they brought a chick back to the house. She’s wasted, and I told them to put her in a cab, but she won’t tell them where she needs to go. They said your name came up. Maybe she’s a law student?”

Who the hell would give my name to a bunch of frat brothers? Kristy?

“What does she look like?”

“Hold on. I’ll text you a pic.”

I wait until it comes through, my mind racing with possibilities.

The dark-haired girl with dark eyes is the last person I expected to see show up on the screen.

“Fuck. It’s my girlfriend. Her name is Justine. I’m coming for her. Don’t let her leave.”

“She’s your girlfriend? Dude, are you sure?”

Acid pools in my stomach. “What the hell happened?” My instincts rage. “If anyone touched her—”

“No, man, it’s just . . . when your name came up, she didn’t say anything about you dating.”

Not surprising. “Just keep her there. I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t let her leave.”

“I’ll do what I can, man.”

I’m out of bed and grabbing up jeans and a hoodie as soon as he hangs up.

“What the fuck did you get yourself into, Justine?”

I’m done letting this shit between us fester. We’re setting the record straight before the sun rises.

I pound on the door to Ian’s condo for five minutes before he pulls it open, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What the fuck, man?”

“I need your keys.”

His gaze sharpens on mine. “Are you drunk?”

“Sober as the day I was born. I gotta get Justine. She’s at my old frat house, hammered, and I have no fucking clue why.”

Ian’s eyes go wide. “No shit. You need a hand?”

I shake my head. “No. Just your keys. Promise I’ll bring it back in one piece.”

He nods and turns away from the door to disappear into the darkness behind him. When he returns, he tosses me a set of keys. “Fuck it up and you’re buying me a new car.”

“Deal.”

I break every speed limit between my condo and campus, not caring about anything but getting to Justine.

What the fuck happened to her? These last few days have been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but this isn’t something I ever would have been able to predict.
Drunk at a frat party?
That’s not like her.

When I pull up in front of the house I lived in for three years in college, I slam the car into park along the street. Music still blares, and every light shines bright.

I rip open the door, haul ass up the sidewalk to the front porch, and let myself in. I freeze as soon as I step foot inside.

Justine is dancing on top of the pool table, wearing the black skirt I assume she wore to work at the firm, with the top four buttons of her blue blouse undone. Her dark hair flies in every direction as she moves to the beat pumping from the sound system.

No. Fucking. Way.

I stalk across the floor and shove through the crowd of guys throwing dollar bills on the table.
Jesus
.
What the fuck?
My thoughts are as dark as the night I saw her walk into Déjà Vu. She reaches for another button on her blouse.

No fucking way.

Corey reaches out and slaps a hand on my shoulder, a frown on his face. “Sorry, man. You just said keep her here, but I couldn’t stop her from doing this.”

I shrug him off and push through the crowd to the edge of the pool table. I wrap my arm around her knees as she spins to face me. Her hair falls across her eyes, obscuring her vision, but I don’t fucking care. I pull her off the table and settle her over my shoulder, careful to keep my hand on her ass so none of these frat-boy douche bags get a look at my girl.

She struggles against me, and I grip her tighter. “Justine, calm the fuck down. I’m taking you home.”

The sound of my voice quiets her movements, but the rest of the room erupts into protests.

I look around at the drunk college kids, my rage approaching murderous levels. They must read it in my face because the shouts die off, and I turn and head for the door. Corey jogs to keep up with me, but I’m not slowing my stride for anyone.

“Sorry, man. At least she didn’t leave.”

“Thanks.” I grit the word out between clenched teeth and push open the door.

Justine is the one with a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and if I’m anywhere close to right about how much she would have had to drink to get this hammered, she’s going to have a monster-sized hangover tomorrow.

I lower her and pull open the passenger door before settling her into the seat. She bats at my hands as I fasten the seat belt, but I don’t stop.

Don’t speak
. There’s nothing I want to say to her here. I want her home, in my bed, where I can figure out how everything went so fucking sideways.

I close the door and round the hood to slide into the driver’s seat. Justine’s head hangs to one side and then flops toward me.

“They’re dead,” she mumbles.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Her dark eyelashes flutter as her eyes open, and she pierces me with a pain-filled gaze. “My parents. They’re dead and I hate them.” Her eyelids squeeze shut as tears spill over and down her cheeks.

I’m shocked by her words. What I know about her parents—beyond the fact that her mom broke into her apartment—wouldn’t fill a single page, but the fact that they’re dead shocks the shit out of me.

“Jesus Christ, Justine. When? Why didn’t you call me?”

“No one cares. I hate them. They hate me. You hate me. I hate me.” Her babbling words make no sense, but the tears that continue to fall say everything I need to know.

I reach over and grab her hand. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”

“Just wanted to forget everything. I can’t even do that right.” Her voice is raw, and her words break my heart.

She passes out before we get back to my apartment, and I carry her from the car to my bed. I smooth her hair away from her face after I tuck her under the covers in one of my T-shirts.

“I don’t hate you, Justine. I love you. So fucking much.”

Justine

Everything hurts and my stomach is staging a mutiny.

Someone, kill me.

I’m hanging over the toilet, gripping the porcelain rim as capable hands pull my hair into a ponytail at the base of my skull. Once it’s secure and I’m done heaving, a bottle presses against my lips.

“Drink, baby.”

Ryker.

Cool water hits my tongue as he tips the bottle, and I swish and spit before taking a little more. The bottle disappears, and a cold washcloth presses against my forehead before gently moving down to my mouth to sweep the nasty residue from my lips.

I release my death grip on the toilet to keep the cloth there. Silently groaning against the fabric, I bow my head.

“What did I do?” I assume my mumble is inaudible until Ryker replies.

“That’s a story for when you’re feeling better. You think you’re good for now? Want to go back to bed?”

The thought of moving an inch from where I’m slumped is more than I can handle. I shake my head.

“You want to sleep in the bathroom?”

I nod, carefully, so as not to wake my calming stomach.

“Okay, then come here.” He slides his hands under my arms and pulls me back into the cradle of his legs.

“Towel—”

“I gotcha.”

Ryker guides my face to his shoulder, and a soft towel cushions my cheek. Now at least I know I won’t drool on him. He must grab another towel, a bigger one, because something thick and fluffy covers us both.

“Try to sleep, baby. I got you.”

“No one has me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”