her on my pillowcases. Even after washing them several times. I know her scent isn’t there, but it’s as if my mind wants to remind me that it was there once. To remember it.
To remember her.
Like I could ever fucking forget her.
I feel like I’ve been in a terrible car accident, and I’m bleeding internally.
I reach for the bottle of whiskey on my desk, only to find it frustratingly empty. I throw it across the room, and it shatters against the door just as it opens.
This feeling is temporary, I tell myself. It isn’t real because the person you’ve lost isn’t real. I’ll be done wallowing soon, and when I do, if there is a god out there, may he have mercy on Mickey.
Because I sure as fuck won’t.
Thorne looks at the shattered glass on the floor and rolls her eyes. “You done throwing yourself a pity party? Because we’ve got fucking work to do.”
I groan. “You can run the pawn shop by yourself. Let’s face it. You’ve been doing it for years anyway.”
“True. But that’s not the kind of business I’m talking about.” She stands above me next to the bed and smacks a rolled-up newspaper onto my chest.
I shift to a sitting position. “Thanks, but I was born in a decade where my generation reads these things online.” I slide the paper to the floor.
“Uhhhh.” Thorne picks up the paper and unrolls it. She turns it upside down, and a note drops from between the pages.
Tonight. My studio. 8pm. -King
I read the words and rub my face in my hands. Fuck. He probably wants to discuss the raid of the compound. What night and what time Mickey is going to die. When I take my hands away, I see a foot tapping impatiently on the floor, reminding me of Thorne’s presence. I look up to where she has her arms crossed over her chest and a hip jutted out with her lips pursed.
“Thank you,” I say. Although he could have just sent a text to my burner phone. I guess he wants to be extra careful since digital trails can never truly be deleted. At least, that’s what Nine’s always harpin’ on about. Besides, when you’re planning a mass murder, it’s always best to veer on the side of caution.
“Get your head out of your ass.” Thorne leans over me and sniffs, then pinches her nose shut, fanning a hand in the air. “And for fuck’s sake, take a shower, man.”
It’s true, I could use a shower, but in my drunken state last night, it was the last thing on my mind. Actually, in my drunken state, I’m not even sure how I got back to the pawn shop. The last thing I remember is drinking whiskey with Nine at his place. I sit up straight, stretching sore muscles and proceed to pretend to be looking for something under the stack of paper and receipts piled up on my desk. “Is that how you speak to your boss? Because that’s what I am, in case you’re having problems remembering,” I snap. “Your boss.”
I feel bad for snapping at her and for pulling the boss card because even though I met Thorne when she came to work here, I see her as a friend before an employee. It doesn’t matter.
My words obviously don’t have the impact I intended for them to have because Thorne looks to the ceiling and cackles. She stops suddenly and glares at me with hard accusing eyes. She slaps both of her palms on the desk and leans in closer. “That’s how I speak to my boss when he was the most fearless man I’d ever known and suddenly morphs into…” She waves her hand over me and grimaces. “Whatever this smelly, cowardly creature is.”
Suddenly, rage boils within me, but what’s making me most angry is that she’s right. After all, avoiding the truth is the reason I’m drinking in the first place. I don’t need her cold dose of reality, I need more fucking whiskey. I need more fucking time.
I slam my fist on the desk.
Thorne doesn’t flinch. Because, well, Thorne doesn’t flinch.
I speak through gritted teeth and point an accusing finger that should be pointed at myself, at her. “Don’t you dare think you know what’s fucking going on with me right now. You have no fucking idea.” I turn to leave the room before I say something else to her that I’m going to regret later.
Thorne’s words stop me in my tracks.