Page 6

Cash

My head's fucking pounding. Each hammering beat is a reminder of my shitty existence. I groan into the darkness of my empty room and roll onto my backside when a vision of Quinn and her sexy-as-sin body weaves its way into my mind.

Fuck if I know why the very thought of her makes me want to smash something into a million and one pieces.

I destroyed us.

I finally regained the capacity to love and let her in, only to have it crushed the second Daniela stepped off the plane and back into my life.

How could I fuck everything up so horribly?

I stretch out my arm and fish for the bottle of Tylenol on my nightstand. Fumbling around, my hand knocks over the bottle, and it crashes down onto the floor. Well, fuck that. I can barely move. My head continues to pound, but my brain won't shut off.

Quinn was my first real sense of hope.

A reason for me to break free from the fucked-up web of dysfunction I've created with the red-headed she-devil I once considered family. As the copious amounts of booze I drank last night begin to wear off, so does the false reality I've created where I didn't hide my past from the one person who made me feel whole again.

My chest tightens with regret. It's been over a month since Quinn walked out of my life, and I've been nothing but a broken, wild mess. I moved to Santa Anna and started my major career with the Tornadoes without Quinn by my side.

I've been killing it on the ice, but I've been spiralling out of control behind closed doors.

When I'm playing hockey, my mind is on the game. I'm working overtime to focus on not screwing up my second chance at playing in the pros.

But when I'm off the ice, my mind is lost in misery over Quinn. I'm a warped cluster fuck of internal agony.

She won't answer my calls. She won't answer my texts.

A few days ago, I even went as far as booking a flight to Boston.

In some fucked up part of my brain, I decided showing up unannounced to beg for her forgiveness would go over well.

But once reality set in, I cancelled my flight.

What could I possibly say to change her mind?

She wants nothing to do with me, and I'm still tied to my past mistakes. I'm married even if I've never had a real wife. And honestly, Quinn deserves better than me. She always has. I should have told her the truth about Daniela ages ago, but I never thought I would fall so hard in love with her. I never thought it would come to this. And now here I am, lost without her.

You're dead to me.

Her words ring in my ears.

I'm still haunted by the look on her face when Daniela called herself my wife. I never should have hidden our arrangement from Quinn. What was I thinking? Frustration fills me. I wish I'd told her everything, but I was too fucking much a coward to do so, and now look at what it cost me.

I'm losing my mind.

To cope, I've turned to the crutch I know best. I'm repeating the mistakes of the past with whiskey, rum, and scotch.

I use team after-parties to feed my addiction, pretending like I'm still okay like alcohol doesn't control my life anymore.

I tell my teammates and coaches it's just soda in my glass while three-quarters are filled with whiskey from a flask I've hidden in my vest.

Chicks throw themselves at me, too: tits hanging out, eyes offering to let me take them any way I want, legs ready to spread with one crook of my finger.

If it weren't for Quinn, I'd throw a different girl into the back of my limo every night and have someone join me on this downward spiral.

But I can't do it anymore. I can't look at the puck bunnies and want them like I used to.

Instead, I push the women away and drink until a familiar numbing sensation tingles all over my body. Eventually, I climb into a limo, stumble into my condo, and flop on my bed. The room spins around me, I black out, and then I wake up the following day and hit repeat.

I sit up now and look around my empty bedroom.

I'm so hungover I can't see straight, but my mind is clear, flickering with thoughts of Quinn, where she is, what she's doing, and who she's doing it with.

I think of her lying in bed in one of my Bruisers t-shirts and panties.

I remember the way it felt holding her in my arms.

Then my mind flashes to her doing that with some brainy grad student guy.

I imagine the reaction to her warm, inviting, tempting beauty all over the Harvard campus.

My chest starts to tighten more. My pulse hammers and my mouth craves another drink. I stagger over to the dresser on my far right and grab the half-drunk bottle of whiskey from the night before. I slam it back, feeling it burn and singe my throat, hoping it numbs the pain of what I've lost.

I wipe my mouth and glance down at my phone on the dresser. I click open my screen, desperately hoping for a missed call or text from Quinn. There's nothing but an empty message box.

Curiosity bites me in the ass, and before I can stop myself, I type her name on Facebook, stalking her like a fucking sorority girl with nothing better to do.

I haven't looked her up in weeks. I deleted her from social media, mainly because my heart imploded at the sight of her profile picture the last time. She was wearing a Harvard sweater, arms in the air in celebration with a huge ass smile on her face as she stood in front of a campus building. Seeing her so happy without me by her side hurt harder than someone taking a hockey stick and slashing it into my balls. I had to accept that she'd moved on.

She didn't care about me anymore. And, after what I hid from her, why would she?

I click to open her Instagram page and scroll down as images of Quinn consume me.

She looks back at me with those big green eyes, plump pink lips, and curvy body that taunts me, telling me I'll never taste, touch or feel her again. I scroll through her photos. Quinn is holding a yoga pose...Quinn with Lyndsey at Starbucks...Quinn is drinking tea with her glasses on. In each picture, she looks sexier than in the last. Just one look at her makes my heart ache. I scrolled her timeline and spotted a recent picture tagged with Aiden Harrington. My body tenses as I realize the arms around her belong to him.

What. The. Fuck?

My heart hammers in my chest.

Quivers of fury streak down my spine.

Bile rises and chokes my throat at the sight of that little fucker Aiden with his arms wrapped around her.

Both of them are smiling from ear to ear.

Quinn looks stunning, the flicker of a bonfire behind her.

Aiden is holding a beer.

Quinn, of course, doesn't have a drink in her hand. I glare at the photo, becoming acutely aware of his intentions with her.

I get angrier by the second. I shake with lust, rage, and jealousy, and my brain starts swimming with unwanted thoughts of him with her.

Touching her.

Holding her.

Fucking her.

I drop my phone, grab the whiskey bottle and slam what's left.

How could I let this happen?

My bedroom spins around me, and I clench my chest, fighting to breathe.

I rifle through the top drawer of my dresser, searching for another bottle.

I need to numb the pain.

Once my fingers discover a bottle of rum, I crack open the lid without a second thought and slam back as much as I can before I sputter and cough.

I toss the bottle aside, stumble backward, letting my knees hit the edge of the bed, and collapse.

"Fuuuuuuucccccckkkkk!" I scream into my empty room.

I force away the image of Quinn with him as my mind races.

You're a scumbag, Brooks. And you never deserved a girl like Quinn. You are a toxic mess. You don't deserve happiness. You deserve the hell you've created for yourself. She was right to walk away from you.

So what if she doesn't want me anymore? The room spins around me. And fuck me if I'm about to open old wounds and risk everything for her.

She never wanted this anyway.

Quinn never fit into my hockey lifestyle.

She wouldn't be caught dead following me from city to city for my hockey career. She's too driven, focused, and independent for that shit, which is precisely what I loved so much about her.

But in the end, she was right to leave me.

And I was right to let her go and to reunite with my good old friend alcohol. I missed the old Cash. The guy who went to loud and crazy parties and drank away his past instead of dealing with it. I missed late nights, turning into early mornings and replacing one buzz with another.

Who needs a girl like Quinn, anyway? If she doesn't want me, I don't want her. Fuck her and that little fucker Aiden.

A few moments later, my breathing settles until there is nothing but black.

_____

"Cash?" A soft female whisper comes from my right. Disoriented, I roll my head to the side, following her familiar voice. "Nurse! Nurse!" She calls out in a panic, and my eyes flutter open. "He's awake! Nurse! He's awake! Someone call his mother, Marie, and tell her he finally woke up!"

Daniela swims into focus at the foot of the bed. Her bright and vibrant hazel eyes are bloodshot and puffy. Her long strawberry-blonde hair is greasy and matted, pulled into a low ponytail. She rushes to my side and grabs my hand.

I wince at her gentle contact.

My hand is badly bruised and bandaged.

My breathing starts to quicken, and then I meet her eyes.

Grief flashes through them fleetingly, but the hope and intensity with which she regards me is frightening.

Something isn't right. Where's Cory?

Why is she at my bedside and not his?

Where is my brother?

"Cash, please say something," she begs. "Do you know where you are? Do you remember anything that happened?"

Sickness slowly spreads into my stomach as memories come crashing back into my mind and register in my brain. My fist clenches, and my lip begins to tremble.

"Where's Cory?" I cry out, forcing myself onto my elbows. I try to catch my breath; it's not coming quickly enough. Sweat trickles down my back. Why isn't she answering me?

I'm dreaming. I know I'm dreaming. I'm tossing. I'm turning. I'm fighting my memories.

"Wake up!"

"Where's Cory?" I scream at her again when two nurses appear in the room.

Daniela remains silent, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

"Call for Dr. Stuart," says the older nurse with stark white hair.

"Wake up!"

"What the fuck is going on? Someone fucking tell me that Cory is okay!" I scream again, hoping someone will relieve my mounting panic.

"Wake up!"

My eyes shoot open at the sound of Daniela's familiar voice. Like nails on a chalkboard, it claws at my ears.

And this time, it's real. This isn't a dream.

What the fuck is she doing here?

Standing over my bedside, she looks down at me with a smug smile.

My panic washes away from the horror of my dream as I glare at the nightmare before me.

Daniela's cheeks are flush, and her forehead's slick with a sweat.

Her long strawberry-blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, and black stretchy pants cover her thighs.

A sheer baggy t-shirt falls off her shoulder, and a bright pink sports bra peeks through the flimsy fabric.

Her attire tells me one of two things: one, she's finished dance class, and two, the cost of it has been charged to my credit card.

My blood boils at the sight of her, unwanted in my home.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" I growl and sit up on the edge of the bed.

"Your front door was unlocked." She scans the perimeter of my disaster of a bedroom. "This place is filthy." She tosses the empty whiskey bottle on a chair covered in dirty laundry, shrugging. "Some things never change."

"I told you I don't want to see you." I stagger to the closet and grab a T-shirt. I can feel her eyes burning into my backside as I slide the shirt over my head. I want nothing more than to kick her out, but I am so physically exhausted my body can't handle forcing her out right now. My muscles ache, my head pounds, and I need another drink. I turn to face her. "I thought I made it clear. I don't want you anywhere near me."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh my god, Cash, it's been months. Get over your little puck bunny already, will you?"

"She's not a puck bunny," I shout, feeling the vein in my neck throb. "Don't you ever fucking call her that again. Her name is Quinn."

She snorts. "Whatever."

I close my eyes tightly and mutter a curse. "What do you want, Daniela?"

"I got the part," she gloats.

"I don't care."

"The tour starts in New York."

"Good." I wave her off. "Now get the fuck out."

She stands firmly in place, unaffected by my aversion to her. "At least say congratulations. I'm officially a backup dancer on a major artist's tour."

"Wow. It's a rags-to-riches story. Vegas table dancer finally gets a gig that pays in more than dollar bills," I reply flatly. I hope she hears my disinterest.

We stare at each other in the silence of my bedroom.

I don't know what she expects me to say. I want her to leave me alone. I push past her, walking out into the kitchen. I don't want her anywhere near my bedroom.

The closer to the exit I can get her, the better.

I hear her footsteps follow behind me.

I open a cupboard, pull out a glass, turn on the tap and fill it with water.

"Maybe you can finally start to pay your rent." I lift my glass to her and then pour it down my throat, watching her face twist into an amused grin.

"Why are you so hostile?" Daniela's eyes darken as she steps forward and fiddles with the dish towel hanging on the stove. "You're getting what you wanted. I'll be out of your hair for at least six months."

A mixture of guilt and anxiety shadows my thoughts.

I think of Cory and our life before the night of the crash.

These past four and a half years were the worst years of my life until I met Quinn.

And then I look up at Daniela, and suddenly, the one person I thought I could trust with the mistakes of my past has become the one person I wish would disappear from my life for good.

"Six months isn't enough. I want you out of my life."

"We both know you don't mean that." She takes another step forward as her hands slide up my sides, spreading across my shoulders before I grab her wrists and push her back a fraction. She gasps at my sudden force. I let go of her wrists, and we stared at each other in an impenetrable silence.

"I mean it," I say with a snarl, breaking the tension.

"We had a deal, Cash." She stares at my face. Her expression turns from confident to calculating. "You can't do that."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," I remind her. "Now get out. I need to get ready for practice."

"After everything we've been through, I thought you'd at least be happy for me." Her bottom lip begins to quiver, and tears fall down her cheeks.

A year ago, my heart would've hurt at the sight of her in tears. I would've done anything to make them go away, but now, I want her to be in as much pain as I am.

"How many times do I have to say it?" I pull open the door and wait for her to walk through it. "Get out."

Her face was tight, her jaw clenched as she pushed past me and through the door without another word.

I slam it behind her, take a deep breath, and walk into my bedroom.

On auto-pilot, I rifle through my drawers until I find another half-drunk bottle—whiskey this time—and take a swig, anger rising like steam in my chest.

I run my hand down my face and lower myself into a chair.

My head is pounding worse than it was before.

What the fuck have I done?