15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Toby

" I literally hate you."

"Well, that's not very professional of you." I don't bother tamping down the snicker that rises.

"You're the worst."

I regret none of my decisions.

"How dramatic."

The sight of Anna covered in snow is one I will never forget, not that it's the only thing I want to see her covered in after a kiss like that one, but we're still ignoring that it happened.

It did, however, get her ass inside with a stick in her hand because it meant being close to the warm fire.

She cheated and found a metal skewer long enough to reach from a safe distance, but she's still next to me with some weird version of a hotdog currently burning in the flames.

"You know you're supposed to be able to eat that, right?"

"It's fine," she mutters and pulls the corners of the throw blanket closer around her chin.

"Not if it's fucking shoe leather, woman. Fuck."

She jabs the skewer further into the flames. "It's gotta be cooked all the way."

"They're literally pre-cooked dogs." I pick up the package and shake it between us. "You can eat them straight out of the plastic."

"Ew."

I shake my head, my tongue poking out to wet my grinning lips. "There's nothing wrong with them."

Anna just shakes her head, rotating her wrist to get another side of the hotdog into the heat.

"You won't die if you eat one." I shove the package in her direction and when she cringes and shakes her head, I pull back. "Fine. More for me, then."

"Go ahead."

Shrugging, I dig into the pack and pinch a hotdog between my fingers. Bringing the cold processed meat to my mouth, I take a huge bite.

"God," she groans. "You're the absolute worst."

"So you're saying …" I pause long enough that Anna drags her resentfully curious gaze to mine. "You don't want any of this?"

She rolls her eyes when I use the half-eaten hotdog to gesture around my mouth.

"Not even a little bit."

I know I've had enough liquor to completely forget why we ended up outside to begin with, but I swear the woman shudders. Like the thought of another kiss somehow disgusts her.

Well then …

Challenge accepted.

"I'd rather freeze to death," she mutters. "The only reason I'm out here now is because I'm starving and someone ate everything else in the fridge."

I shrug and snicker, undenying of her accusations. "Pretty sure food is a staple for survival."

"Lucky Charms and whiskey in your coffee is not survival."

Holding up my arm, I squint at the half-eaten hotdog through one eye. "Guess you don't count, either." It goes down the hatch, colder than the first bite.

Anna shudders audibly, but manages to slap her dinner on a bun, then nibbles around so long I end up roasting and finishing another dog.

"Tastes horrible, doesn't it?"

Grumbling, she tosses the remaining bits on the tray between us and sighs. "So bad."

I chuckle. "I fuckin' told you, Prune."

Growling, she pushes to her feet, the blanket falling around her seat. "I'm going to bed." She grabs the skewer and the tray and whisks them away to the kitchen.

I pretend not to watch her wash, rewash, and then replace each item in their designated space. She nods once she's done, only disappearing down the hallway when she double checks them all again.

I wrap my fingers around the neck of the guitar I left on the couch. My fingertips ache, the smaller cords cutting into my already calloused skin, but I don't let it stop me from playing.

The sound is not as rusty as it was in the hot tub, but I'm sure the water didn't help the instrument much.

I tweak the tuning pegs, and that helps create a better melody, but it's still not quite the tune I recall.

Growling, I scoot across the floor until my back hits the couch and the acoustic settles in my lap. I'm more engrossed in the flickering flames than the strings I play, but that doesn't stop my mind from wandering. Dreaming. Wishing .

It's almost as if I can hear the voices in my ears once the tune stops, my vision tunneling out so far that I don't see anything past the burning embers.

Emotions I've done everything in my power to ignore claw their way up my drying throat and release a sound that's on the verge of choked. The desperation burns behind my eyes until tears form, while anger and pain sear into my fingertips as they find the strings again. My skin splits, flaying open as I drag them across the cords, and yet I don't stop.

Time stands still as I bleed over the frets with raw digits, and when the instrument gives up on me by popping a string, I pick the bottle.

I don't stop until the bottom is dry and my vision is fuzzy and my head is swimming.

Then finally, it all goes black.