3. Cole

Chapter 3

Cole

B eing at home alone was certainly my first hurdle to get over.

It was nearly one in the morning, and I hadn't felt an ounce of exhaustion sweep over me yet. Instead, I found myself in the kitchen like I used to most nights whenever I was here. The space was too large for just me, and despite the temptation itching at my bones, I decided to make it even larger.

Grabbing a far too expensive bottle of wine from the top shelf felt like a solid place to start.

I plucked the cork out with my bare fingers, my nails catching in it and stinging as I pulled. I didn't give a shit if it broke, couldn't care less if little bits of cork swam in the wine like marshmallows in a cup of cocoa. I pulled and pulled until it gave way with a pop.

The scent of it alone was staggering. Perfectly fermented, crisp, apple-like and tangy. I almost lifted it straight to my lips.

Almost.

Instead, I poured it directly into the drain of my sink.

Over and over again, I emptied bottle after bottle. Thousands of dollars entering the sewage system felt like a goddamn waste. I could've given it away, offered it to employees or friends and family, but I needed it gone. I wanted to drink it. I wanted to forget the day and pretend like seeing her hadn't thrown me for a loop.

But it had thrown me for a loop. I hadn't expected to see her again anytime soon, and certainly not the day I came back to Boulder. She was unlike anyone I'd ever been with, even if it had only been one date and one extra night together. I'd thought about her often, thought about what had happened between us.

It played again in my head as the bottles broke in my glass pulverizer.

————

"Lottie's going to kill me," Dana had said. That part I remembered clear as day. The way she laid back on my queen-sized bed in my barely furnished apartment downtown, her wavy brown hair framing her face, nothing but her bra and underwear covering her body. Her knees were up, swaying back and forth, and I was so transfixed on them I could barely breathe. They'd kept my gaze from her lips—the ones I'd devoured in the elevator on the way up.

She'd always been so fucking beautiful.

The ache in my cock begged me to drive my zipper down and climb on top of her. I'd worked on my shirt instead, though, taking my time despite the buzzing in my head.

"Why?" I'd asked. "Who you sleep with shouldn't affect her."

"You were her dad's client, Cole. Do you honestly think that won't bother her? I mean, yeah, Brody's gone now, but she heard enough from him about your… type . Enough to tell me about it." Her lower lip had folded in beneath her upper teeth, her eyes tracking every movement of my hands. "She'll think I've gone insane."

"So's her husband but she still married Hunter, didn't she?"

"Are you proposing to me on our second date?" she'd laughed.

The sides of my shirt had slid down my shoulders then onto the floor. "Don't get cocky," I'd warned, a faint smile forming on my lips. "I'm just saying that it's perfectly natural for wedding guests to, well, do this ."

I'd climbed onto the bed, her knees falling apart so easily, welcoming me, almost beckoning me.

"If Lottie has an issue with it then she can bitch about it to her horses," I'd mumbled.

I could still hear her giggle before the sound of her breath catching as I pressed my lips against her jaw, just beneath the little beauty mark between her lips and chin. She'd smelled of salt spray and coconuts, like a pi?a colada on the beach at sunset. I'd wanted nothing more than to drink her in entirely.

Her chin tipped down, catching my lips on hers. I'd kissed her for the second time, tasted the leftover hints of wine and mixed drinks on her tongue, and savored every second. We hadn't been roaringly drunk, at least, not anymore by that point. But there was still a lack of inhibitions, a buzz that had settled at the base of my skull and told me it was time for more.

She would be my more that night.

I hadn't been invited to Lottie and Hunter's first wedding. According to Dana, it was a quick, private event solely for the benefit of Lottie's father before he passed. But when they'd decided to have another—one that I would be in attendance for—Dana had reached out to me a few months after our first hangout to ask me to go with her.

And thank fuck she had. She wouldn't have been in my bed if she hadn't.

I'd been thinking about her since the moment we'd met at Lottie's house. I'd barely been able to take my eyes off of her then. Her tanned skin, those far too bright hazel eyes, the way the sun glinted off her flushed cheeks. But there, in my bedroom, she was almost otherworldly.

Her freckles peeked through her minimal makeup. The low light of the lamp on my bedside table coated her in a different kind of warmth, one that made her eyelids heavy and my cock ache. The soft glow of the streetlights outside the window of my apartment filled the room with light blue and yellow. I was grateful I'd sobered up enough by then to remember it, and enough to ensure my driver brought us there instead of to my house in the mountains, too far away. And I couldn't wait that long.

"Cole," she'd breathed, her chest rising and falling against my chin.

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to… you know?" She'd giggled as her cheeks turned red. "You're not doing anything."

Oh. Shit, she was right. I'd gotten lost in my own head.

"I'm just taking you in." I could still feel the way my lips had twitched up into a smirk. "And imagining all the ways I'm going to make you scream."

Her flush had deepened as her hips lifted just an inch, a silent request for something, anything.

The memory halted, and by the time it picked back up, her bra and underwear had been discarded somewhere on the floor, my slacks hung off one foot, and my cock was rubbing against her entrance.

I'd lost the time. I'd hesitated as the realization of that settled in and stared down at every inch of her.

Holy fuck. Even remembering it now, I knew then that her breasts would be the death of me.

Wrapping my fingers around the little pockets of skin at her hips, I'd used them like handles to hold her steady as I slowly, achingly, sunk myself inside of her.

Warmth invaded my senses like wildfire. Her body had swallowed me whole, her little grunts and mewls only making me harder. She'd stretched for me perfectly, so slick, so desperate. "Oh, fuck," I'd groaned, bottoming out inside of her as I brought my body over hers again. "You're going to kill me, Dana."

Her little giggle had made her insides shake. "Why?"

"Because I've never felt something so good in my goddamn life."

I didn't know why, didn't know what had come over me, but the words I'd spoken were true. I'd searched for the same thing in countless women after her, searched for someone that fit to my body like a glove, in the exact way that she had, but none had come close.

She'd ruined me.

I'd lost count of how many times I spilled myself inside of her, on her, in her vicinity. I'd lost count of how many times she shrieked her release, her hands fisted in the pillows or her lips around my length. We'd fucked like animals, insatiable and constant, writhing and needy, far too late into the morning.

And I stored every fucking second that I could in my memory. I didn't want another blip like I'd had at the start, no, I wanted to remember her in every position, in every vixen-like gasp and cry.

It was easily one of the best nights of my life.

But when I woke that morning with her lightly snoring frame wrapped in my arms, my head pounded. It screamed . I couldn't count the number of times I'd been hungover in my life, but this one had been one of the worst. I hadn't drank enough water throughout the night.

I'd slid my arm from under her and slinked out of the bed, careful not to wake her, then stumbled my way down the hall toward the kitchen as I clutched my head. The world had felt shaky, hazy, like I was stuck between reality and dreams. Everything seemed so far away, so without consequence.

I could have taken a Tylenol. I could have drank a glass of water, eaten something greasy, prayed to whatever god would listen to kill the hangover before it could get worse.

But I had taken the easy route.

Shaking fingers had wrapped themselves around a glass and a bottle as if they had a mind of their own. I'd watched from somewhere far back in my mind, barely understanding what I was doing but knowing it wasn't abnormal for me. Couldn't be hungover if you're drunk . I guess that could have been my motto.

For what had felt like the first time in my life but was probably somewhere closer to the two-hundredth, I had slung back a glass of whiskey in one gulp, starting the morning routine.

The burn of it had eased the throbbing in my brain. I remembered looking out the window and noticing how the sun was just starting to crest over the mountains, its rays cutting through the sky like the way the throbbing headache had shot pain streaking across my head. It had to have been somewhere around seven in the morning.

One glass was enough. It should have been enough.

But then it was two.

Then three.

And by the third, I didn't even hear Dana approaching. The room seemed to sway slightly, but in a pleasantly energized way, not the overwhelming dizziness of being too drunk, and I felt a warmth spreading through me. My hands were steady now, and I was definitely feeling the buzz.

How much had I poured into my glass? I remembered the whiskey almost reaching the rim, a sign of my growing enthusiasm.

"Cole?"

I swear, her voice had echoed. It was beautiful, like a song, and as I'd torn my gaze from my too-full glass and looked at her, she came into focus.

Shit. Even through the buzz, I could tell that she had clocked it, could tell that she saw and internalized the drink in my hand.

"Are you… still drinking?" she'd asked, her brows knitting as she studied me. "Did you not go to bed?"

I'd approached her, doing a little dance. "No. Went to sleep with you. It's fine."

"It's not fine." Her face had contorted, her body retreating. "It's like, eight in the morning, Cole. Why the fuck are you drinking?"

I'd plastered a smile on my face, mustering up the lie. "It's just one."

"You don't sound like you've only had one," she'd said, her fingers twitching where they clung to the hem of my button-up shirt that she'd put on. It was so large on her — the image of her like that was burned into my mind.

"Shh, don't worry about it," I'd grinned. I'd reached out for her, her body within grasping distance, and pulled her toward me. She'd stared at me, concern and irritation coating her features, and god, I wished I'd picked up on it then. I wished I hadn't taken the gentleness she regarded me with as she placed her hand on my cheek as something it wasn't. "Fuck, you look so good in my shirt."

The look of abject disapproval on her face was something that had burned itself into my mind. Even through the buzz of the alcohol, that was what stuck with me the most, what flashed in my mind too many times a day. Of course I couldn't forget her face. I feared I never would.

"You could have made yourself a coffee, you know?" she finally said.

I knew I had royally fucked up but I tried to keep the mood light-hearted. "It's never too early to pick up where we left off last night. Come on, join me. Hair of the dog, they say." I grinned, hoping she'd see the humor in my suggestion.

Dana raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "I think we've had enough 'dog' for a while, don't you?"

To that I didn't have an answer. All I could do was watch her as she left the kitchen and hurried into the bedroom and, from what I could hear, she was frantically getting dressed and collecting her things. I sat down and rolled the full glass in my hand, staring deeply into the sea of amber.

"I need to go," she'd breathed when she came back, her eyes wandering to keep herself from looking at me. "I have to get out of here."

"Why?"

"Don't. Just don't, Cole."

"Then I'll continue the party without you."

In two seconds, she was down the hall and at the front door. "Don't even think about calling me," she yelled out to me, her voice echoing through the apartment.

And the door slammed shut.

The silence that followed was all consuming, enveloping me in a blanket of loneliness.

What happened after that was something I'd gone over multiple times, something that haunted me in the early hours of the morning when I couldn't fall asleep, something I'd spoken about multiple times just to try to get over it.

I'd downed the nearly full glass, searing my insides with every gulp. I remembered, clear as day, setting it down on the table and placing my open palm over the entirety of the thin rim of it. I used it as leverage to steady my unbalanced frame as I pushed myself up out of the chair.

I remembered it shattering under the weight I placed on it.

What I didn't remember in the slightest was the pain of the glass slicing into my palm, but the little drops of blood that fell onto the table beneath were clear as day.

————

I stared down at the last empty bottle from my cupboard. I'd ruined so many things that morning, probably said things to her I couldn't even remember. I'd searched for that feeling I had with her at the bottom of every bottle, in the arms of women I couldn't even remember the names of, in the sickness in my gut that flared with every drink I had.

It had only gotten worse after that.

Seeing her again had only made the need to make amends with her stronger. From the way she'd looked at me, I knew there wasn't a single inkling of forgiveness in her bones, but I'd apologize to her somehow. Even if it physically pained me to do it. But would she even accept it? We'd both ghosted each other after that night. I'd been far too ashamed to reach out, and assumedly, she hadn't wanted to contact me again. I didn't judge her for it in the slightest. But the idea of apologizing for things that had happened after, the things that had gotten lost in the heavy fog of the drink, felt almost worthless when I didn't even know what I'd said. All I had left was the feeling of it, the venom in words that would forever evade me.

God, I hated apologies.

A text from Lottie lit up my phone on the counter. I shoved the last bottle into the glass crusher.

You still up? Brody won't let me sleep.

I swiped down on her name and hit the call button.

The sound of wailing met me before her voice did. "Sorry! Sorry," she sighed, the wail cutting off with a little coo. "He's been so goddamn hungry lately I can barely keep up."

Damn it felt so good to hear her voice. I'd meant to call her earlier—she knew I was coming home—but it had slipped my mind in the transition from plane to work to home to throwing away bottles of ridiculously expensive alcohol. We'd texted frequently while I was away, and even though she was Dana's friend first and foremost, she was impartial when it came to me. She knew me through her father, Brody, whom she'd named her son after. I think in some way it provided her a last little connection to him.

She also was one of two people who knew where I'd been for the last six months.

"It's okay." I couldn't hide the smile from my voice. The freedom of being able to use my phone however I wanted was hitting me like a fucking freight train. "I don't mind. Honestly."

"How have you been?"

"Me? What about you?" I chuckled. "I still haven't met Brody. He's, what, seven months? How's Hunter? The ranch? The company?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she laughed. "Brody is almost exactly seven months. Two more days until he hits that milestone."

"And Hunter?"

"He's good. Exhausted. He's been an absolute dream with Brody, letting me have the last week off of nighttime duties so I'm trying to return the favor," she sighed. "We've both been wildly busy with work but honestly, I'm… I'm really happy."

"That's good, Lots."

"And you?"

"I… yeah. You know your friend is working for me?"

The end of the line went silent except for a quiet little coo. "Shit. She does. I didn't even think about that."

"That was a fun discovery," I snorted. Pulling a shitty ready meal out of the freezer, I chucked it into the microwave. "She's not happy about it."

"I imagine not." Lottie huffed as Brody's little coos started to turn more into cries again. "For fuck's sake. I'm sorry, I've got to go. I don't know how long he'll be like this."

"That's alright."

"You should come out to the ranch sometime. Meet Brody. Horses can be very therapeutic, you know." The wails grew louder, angrier.

"I will."

"Bye, Cole."

"Bye."

————

A microwave meal on the balcony of my expansive home at two in the morning was certainly a new form of rock bottom.

At least I wasn't drunk.

The wind whistled through the trees as the stars hung brilliantly above, blocked out only by the outlines of the mountains. I lifted spoonful after spoonful of macaroni and cheese and overcooked chicken with gravy into my mouth, wishing more than anything it was the lip of a bottle instead.

The house was far too large and I was far too small. I hadn't even begun to crack into the stashes of bottles throughout the property. I'd still be finding them for months, and I knew damn well that every single one would be a test.

I felt the imprint of my medallion and let out a sigh.

There had been so many times over the years that I wished I could turn back the clock and stop time before any of it started or changed my behavior, but now more than ever, it loomed over me like a giant raincloud. I wished I could take it all back. Every person I'd hurt, every event I'd ruined, the damage I'd done to myself and others…

I glanced down at my right palm, zoning in on the little scar from the shards of glass that morning with Dana. I wished I could take that back, too.

Is there a world where we could have worked?

The more I stared at it, the more it morphed into the split-open skin and blood.

Would she give me a second chance?

Surely not.

An alert from my doorbell camera buzzed on my phone, someone had triggered it. For a short, split second, I wondered if it could be her. If she'd heard where I'd been and wanted to talk. But the face on the live video feed was someone else entirely, someone I knew far too well.

"What are you doing here?" I laughed down the phone, pushing my way into the house and through the maze of corridors toward the front door. Shoulder-length black hair, a stout frame, a shorter stature than me. My sober companion, my friend from the last six months. A chaotic man with a chip on his sleeve. A brightness in a sea of clouds. Somehow, he was exactly the person I needed.

Bobby grinned at the camera. "Came to the rescue, didn't I?"