Page 152 of Reckless Hearts

He looks like someone watching their entire world burn down, knowing they have to let it happen, and the raw devastation on his perfect features nearly breaks my resolve.

Then he nods slowly, his eyes never leaving my face.

“I promise,” he says the words like a vow.

35

Marcus

I’m a fucking mess on the plane back to LA.

The private jet’s luxury feels like a mockery. The plush leather seat cradles me, but I might as well be sitting on broken glass. My reflection in the polished wood paneling is a stranger—hollowed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, hair a mess from obsessively running my hands through it. I look like I’ve aged a decade in a day.

I fumble with my phone, muscle memory opening my text thread with Seb before reality slams into me. No more good morning texts. No more random animal facts to make me smile. No more late-night video calls where I could pretend he was beside me.

The flight attendant approaches, all professional concern.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Johnson?” she asks.

I want to scream.

But I’m afraid if I start screaming, I’ll never be able to stop.

Instead, I manage a brittle smile. “Can I have a glass of whiskey, please?”

“As you wish, Mr. Johnson.”

She bustles back with a bottle of top-shelf whiskey that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

“Just…leave the bottle,” I say.

She hesitates, then nods.

I pour a generous measure, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. It burns going down, but it’s nothing compared to the acid eating away at my insides. Seb’s voice echoes in my head:I need you to let me go.

I was destroying him. Like I destroyed my mother. Like I destroyed my sister.

The only thing I could do was promise not to destroy him too.

I skull another glass of whiskey, and the world blurs at the edges. I fumble in my pocket, fingers closing around the familiar bottle of pills. Xanax. My chemical armor against the world. Against myself.

I shake out a handful, not bothering to count. What does it matter anymore? I wash them down with another burning swallow of whiskey, grimacing at the bitter taste. But it’s nothing compared to the bitterness inside me.

The cabin starts to swim, reality bending and warping like a funhouse mirror. Seb’s face appears, hovering in the air before me, disappointment etched in every line. I reach out, trying to touch him, explain, to beg forgiveness, but my hand passes through empty air.

I’m falling, tumbling through a void of memories. Seb’s laugh. The warmth of his skin. The way he looked at me like I was worth something. Darkness rushes up to meet me. As consciousness slips away, my last coherent thought is a wish: let me forget, just for a little while.

I wakeup to shining brightness that sears through my skull like a white-hot poker. My eyelids feel welded shut, and prying them open is an exercise in agony.

I squint, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The room is all sleek minimalism and chrome—signature Jake. He looms over me, his normally impeccable appearance slightly rumpled as if he’s been up all night. His hand is on the curtain cord. It appears he’s wielding daylight like a weapon.

“What the absolute fuck, Marcus?”

I blink in the bright light.

“I think your bedside manner needs some work,” I say.

Jake’s face contorts with a mixture of rage and concern. “Do you have any idea what kind of shit storm you almost caused? The flight attendant found you passed out cold!”