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COREY

Fletch tried to stop me as I marched toward him in my need to escape that building and her. But nothing was going to.

A red haze had descended, and I couldn’t see my way through it, let alone figure out a way to banish it.

My heart raced, and my hands trembled with my need to break something, hurt someone.

And all for what?

Because she tried to help me.

I threw her car keys at the receptionist as I left and took off on foot. Driving over here surrounded by her scent was bad enough. I couldn’t bear it again.

I walked for hours, trying to regulate my breathing and talk myself down. I shouldn’t have gone marching in there like that. I should have waited until later, and we could have talked it out in private. But I was just too fucking angry.

I ended up on the beach, where I sat and watched the waves crash onto the shore, trying to figure out where I—we—go. All the while, Oz was forced to cancel my appointments when I didn’t show my face at the studio.

I should have swallowed my pride and picked her up from work as planned and allowed her to explain. But my fear of her looking at me like a charity case was too much to bear. I told myself that nothing had changed, but it didn’t matter.

All these questions spun around in my head. Where did she get that kind of money from? How the hell am I going to pay her back?

But none of them were important enough to get me moving.

The time for her to finish work came and went, and I still sat on the sand in an angry daze.

When I did move, it was only because the tide was coming in and I had little choice.

I stopped at a store on the way back to my flat and found myself a bottle of whisky—not Macallan; there’s no way I could stomach that—and I spent the rest of the night drinking myself into oblivion.

Aside from turning up to the shop still smelling of the previous night’s alcohol, that’s pretty much how I spend the next four days: losing myself in work or whisky.

I’m not sure what else to do to numb the pain of walking away from her.

When I told her that being with her makes me feel free in a way I’d never experienced before, I don’t think I had totally appreciated just how true that was. But without her, I’m drowning.

My alcohol-induced nightmares are worse than ever, and each time I wake from one, my chest heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, she’s the first thing I look for. But all that stares back at me is an empty bed.

I spend the week almost like I’m back in England and fighting to get through each day. I thought I’d left this feeling of loneliness and desperation behind; turns out it was just in wait, ready to knock me back down to Earth once again.

I guess that’s what happens when you try to outrun your demons. They find you eventually.

By Friday, I’m exhausted. My sleep is almost as bad as it’s ever been, and my hangovers are starting to roll into one giant one. I’ve no idea where one day ends and another begins.

Work is the only time the voices in my head lessen. I need to go to her. We need to talk. But I’m no good to anyone like this.

I’m a fucking mess, and I won’t allow her to try to bring me back to life. I need to figure out a way to do that for myself. I refuse to be that dependent on her, or anyone.

It’s almost the end of the day, and I’m already dreading having to go home and be alone and for the walls to close in on me once again.

A commotion out in the studio reception has me pausing as I tidy everything away for the night, but I don’t bother to go and look.

It’s probably just Oz and JJ causing a scene once again.

I’m not expecting a knock at my door, but when it comes, I call out for whomever it is to enter.

Assuming it’s one of the guys who knows better than to just storm in with the mood I’ve been in this week, I continue with what I’m doing. Only, when a throat clears behind me, I’m forced to look over my shoulder to see who’s there.

“F-Fletch? How’s it going?” I guess that explains the excitement on the other side of the door.

“I’m good, man.”

“I thought you’d want Snake if you were after some more ink.”

“I’m not. I’m here for you.”

“Okay. Well, get up on the chair then,” I say, ready to halt my tidying up if he needs me to do something.

“Nah, not like that. We need to talk.”

“Ah,” I say, realisation hitting me. “Reese sent you?”

He shrugs and looks a little guilty. “Yes and no. There’s a bar down the street. Shall we?”

“Sure.” Abandoning my studio as it is, I follow him out.

He says his goodbyes to Snake and JJ, who looks up at him as if she’s imagining climbing him like a tree, and we head across the street.

“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask when he places two glasses and a bottle of scotch in the center of the table we’ve taken over.

“How are you doing?” Memories of our rooftop chat come back to me.

“Yeah, you know,” I say, not really explaining anything.

He blows out a breath as he swirls his glass and watches the amber liquid race around. “Harlow’s aunt died.”

My heart drops. Losing another family member is the last thing she needs.

“I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, and it isn’t really my place to be telling you this, but … Reese can be persuasive when she wants to be. Harlow isn’t in a good place, man. I think she might need you.”

“She barely knows me,” I mutter, downing my drink in one in the hope of dulling the ache those words cause in my chest.

“She knows you enough to help you out when you need it.” He quirks an eyebrow and I groan, hating that he knows what she did.

“I know you’re scared. I understand that this is bigger than just taking a chance on a girl.

But you’re going to need to make a decision.

Is she worth it? And if you decide she is, you need to show her.

Be there for her when she needs you so that she can do the same in return when the time comes. ”

I nod, unable to find the words.

Fletch gives me a moment, his attention drifting to the other side of the bar.

I want to be there for her,. I want to be the man she deserves. But can I put my issues aside for long enough to be that?

The TV behind my head changes, and it has Fletch looking up. I glance over my shoulder to see what’s got his attention and find a news report on the upcoming season.

“You all ready for it?” I ask, happy to divert the conversation away from me.

“Ready as I can be. You planning on watching some games?”

“Yeah, definitely.” I managed to get to the last few games of the season after I moved. Milo dragged me out after to celebrate their wins. I can’t lie; I’m looking forward to the season starting again and having something other than work to focus on.

His face flashes on the screen, and he sinks down in his chair a little, pulling his hat lower in the hope that no one notices him.

“You can go, if you like. You don’t need to babysit me.”

“What? Don’t be stupid. I’m not passing up a night of freedom. Actually …” He pulls his phone out and taps away for a few seconds. “Reinforcements will be here momentarily.”

“Reinforcements?”

“Yep, not that they’ll be any better with advice than I am.”

Not ten minutes later is there a commotion at the entrance, and when I look over, I spot two familiar faces heading our way.

“Linc, Handsy. You know Corey, right?”

“Sure do.” They nod before joining us.

Two more glasses appear before us, and they both take the drink Fletch offers them.

Linc swallows it down before leaning forward on his elbows, his eyes locked on mine. “So, Corey, what has us here at a bar drinking top-shelf whiskey tonight?”

“He just needed a night away from reality,” Fletch says coyly, refilling my glass.

“That we can do,” Handsy agrees before swallowing his drink.

Harlow aside, the night turns out to be one of the best I’ve had since moving here.

I’ve hung out occasionally with the guys after a win, but they’re usually too distracted.

But spending time with Fletch, Linc and Handsy is just easy, relaxed.

We shoot the shit, give each other shit, and just … hang.

By the time I’m back in my flat later that night with my head spinning once again, I feel lighter for the first time since walking out of that letting agent office at the beginning of the week.

Once I’m in bed, I pull my phone from my pocket and bring up an app that allows me to send her flowers. When it prompts me to upload my own message for the card, I scramble out of bed to find a pen and piece of paper. The second I write her name, I know what to add.

The need to be with her supporting her right now burns through me as I redraw a part of the tattoo she allowed me to ink on her.

I’m still angry that she went ahead and bailed me out like she did, but I’m not angry enough to ignore the fact that she’s going through a hard time.

Plus, the gesture will make me feel that little bit better about the fact that I should probably do as Fletch suggested and push my pride aside and go and see her myself.

I tell myself that I will, but then I end up convincing myself that she’s probably surrounded by family right now who are supporting her through this. After the way I treated her, the last thing she needs is to see me.