Page 51 of The Pursuit of Happiness (Satan’s Angels #2)

I feel like a giant hole has been punched through my chest and my heart has been torn out of my body.

I feel like the veins attached to my heart have snapped and I’m a walking, empty corpse.

I thought Duncan broke my heart by wanting to crush my dreams and control every aspect of my life, but that doesn’t compare to this.

I have never experienced pain of this magnitude.

I never thought I would love anyone again after Duncan and when I took that chance on Sly, I gave him every ounce of me and none of it was real the entire time. Now, I’m left with this hole where my heart used to be and a pain in my chest that makes breathing difficult.

I keep walking. Keep placing one foot in front of the other because the minute I stop, the pain will catch up to me.

I force myself to keep moving, despite the pain in my shins and the ache in my heels.

I walk for so long, ignoring my surroundings and letting my body subconsciously lead me to somewhere where the pain can’t follow.

It isn’t until I look up and stop walking what feels like hours later, that I realize where I am.

I’m at the after party from the talk show from Hell.

I suddenly feel so stupid for ever defending Sly.

I defended him and put myself and my heart on the line to protect him in front of millions of viewers when he never truly cared about me.

No, it was all part of his act, his ploy to win the Muse Award.

The thought of that stupid award has bitterness coating my tongue and anger rising in my chest. Fuck that award.

It ruined everything. Before we were nominated, my public reputation was intact, my body wasn’t exposed to the entire world, an intimate moment wasn’t shared, and I never got my heart broken.

I want to blame Sly so badly, but I’m not quite there yet.

The part of me that still loves him wants to blame the award.

I catch sight of a couple giggling as they exit the party, high on life. I recognize them as actors from a popular show. I feel envy rising to the surface of my body as I watch them smile and laugh at each other.

When they vanish, disappearing into the backseat of a car, I turn my attention to the entrance. The party is in an art museum. I know Hollywood well enough to know that the party won’t end until well after the sun rises. There’s probably hundreds of people inside, including Brody and Ivory.

My chest aches as I think of my friends. I suddenly have a burning desire to tell them what happened and sob into their embraces. Before I can think better of it, I start walking again. Closer and closer I go to the entrance.

When the security staff grants me entry, giving me confused glances, most likely at the state of my appearance, I slip my heels back on and walk through the sea of bodies.

I try to keep my head down to avoid unwanted conversation with peers and acquaintances and I do a fair job as only a few make comments and compliment me as I walk.

I ignore them all, too hellbent on finding my friends.

As my eyes scan the room, they land on the open bar. I hesitate before I move. I could really use a drink. I’ll have just one and find Brody and Ivory after. I stride over to the bar, weaving through the bodies talking and dancing. I ignore the loud, soft rock music and focus only on the bar.

When I finally push through the throng of people, I lean my elbows on the cherrywood and wait for the server to notice me. He does, almost immediately, and offers me a weak smile. “Hi, what can I get you?”

“The strongest thing you’ve got,” I beg.

He hesitates, lets his eyes roam over my haggard appearance, and must feel a shred of sympathy for me because he turns around and makes quick work of curating a strong drink for me.

He turns around a moment later and places a glass in front of me. I immediately bring it to my mouth and wince at the strong taste. I ignore it, taking large gulps. I place the glass back down and rub my face as the warmth of the liquid seeps through my chest and creates a nest in my stomach.

“Bad day?” The bartender asks. He has chocolate colored skin and bright, green eyes. He’s attractive and has a nice boyish charm about him.

I sigh, “Bad couple of months.”

He nods, “Then that drink will help with that. At least for tonight. There’s Pincer Shanghai Strength Vodka in that. Almost ninety proof.”

I take another sip, “Thank you.”

He gives me a small smile before he turns his attention to the next needy customer.

I continue nursing my drink for a couple of minutes and question how exactly my life got so fucked up and how I could’ve prevented it from happening.

I guess the answer to the first is Slater Nicks and the answer to the second is if I never fell in love with him.

I turn around and lean my back against the edge of the bar.

I scan the room again for Brody and Ivory but I can’t find them anywhere.

I go to reach inside my purse for my phone to text them, only to realize that I left my purse and phone at Slater’s.

The only thing I have on me is the blue phone.

I still hold it in my hand. I frown as I realize I don’t have Brody and Ivory’s numbers memorized. I have no way of finding them. Fuck.

“Hey, Aria,” a voice appears from beside me and I jump, startled at the sound.

I turn my head and my eyes immediately land on Rogan, his copper hair slicked back and his freckled cheeks on display.

He gives me a warm smile and the sight makes me feel sadness in my gut.

It makes me feel sadness because Rogan reminds me of Slater and Slater reminds me of pain and heartbreak. “Hi,” I say weakly.

Rogan takes in the sight of my face which most likely has mascara tears dried onto it, and my general state of disarray before he stiffens, concern etched into his features, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

I laugh as I bring my drink up to my lips and take another two sips. The drink is almost empty and I’m already feeling a slight buzz. The bartender wasn’t joking when he said this shit was strong.

“Why are you laughing? Are you in shock?” He frets.

Did something happen? What a stupid question. What didn’t happen, is what he should’ve asked me. “I’m not in shock,” I clarify.

“What’s wrong?” He leans in closer to me and lowers his voice so that nobody around us can hear.

I don’t entirely trust Rogan. I didn’t trust him before because of Slater.

But I also can’t trust Slater. So maybe the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

I decide to answer honestly, but to keep the information given minimal.

I raise the phone and wave it in the air, a broken smile on my face, “I found this in Slater’s bedroom. In the drawer he has for me.”

Rogan looks at the phone but doesn’t seem to understand why the phone would have any significance. It dawns on me that he has no clue what the phone is and what it means. “This was the phone used to record and distribute the sex tape. He had it all along.”

Rogan’s brows rise and his mouth gapes, “Holy shit.”

I laugh, “Yup.” I bring the glass back to my lips and drain the last few sips before setting it back down.

Rogan shakes his head in disbelief, “I can’t believe he would do something like that. He seemed to really care about you.”

I give him an annoyed look, “Yeah, well, people can lie when they want something from you.”

“What do you think he wanted from you?” Rogan tilts his head in thought.

I shrug, “To ruin my chances of winning the Muse Award.”

He scoffs, “Fuck that award. I can’t believe he would do something like this just to win.” His eyes soften, “I’m so sorry, Aria.”

I take a deep breath at the sincerity in his words. I look for the bartender only to find him on the other end of the bar. Rogan glances in that direction and offers, “Do you want me to get you another one? I think you could use it right now.”

I nod, “Please.”

He disappears a moment later, leaving me alone with my thoughts and this fucking phone. I want to crush this phone. I don’t even know why I kept it. I don’t even know what I plan on doing with it.

When Rogan returns with a fresh drink, he offers it to me with a smile. I accept it and take a sip. He has a drink of his own and takes a sip in tune with me. When I lower my glass, my brows pull together, “Have you seen Ivory and Brody?”

Rogan shakes his head, “No, I haven’t seen them. I think they left earlier around when Miles and Nate left.”

“You’re here alone?” I ask, confused. Why would he have stuck around if his friends left?

He takes another sip of his drink before he answers me, “No. I have a few friends floating around.”

I nod even though the response is vague.

“So what brings you here?” Rogan asks.

I give him a look as though he already knows the answer and he quickly clarifies, “I mean I know what happened, but why come here ?”

I shrug, “I thought Brody and Ivory would be here.” My voice lowers and is heavy with disappointment.

Rogan shakes his head and gives me an empty look. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.”

I sigh. “Can we talk about something else?”

He nods, “Anything.”

I tilt my head at him and the room spins with the rapid movement. I steady myself on the ledge of the bar, “Tell me about you.” I don’t really care to gain more knowledge about Rogan, but I need him to talk about something or anything so that I can think about anything aside from Slater.

His eyes seem to shine as he smiles, “Well, I was born and raised in Michigan. I met the guys when I moved to LA and I started playing the guitar when I was ten.”

The tip of my tongue tingles and I glance at my drink and furrow my brows in confusion. Damn, this vodka must be strong as fuck. I’m only a drink and a half deep and I feel like I’m landing on a new planet.

“When did you start to play?”