THREE YEARS AGO
Chicago, Illinois
LUCIAN
I needed a break and some fucking quiet or something close to it.
I knew I wouldn’t find that in this bar but I walked in anyway.
The house had been suffocating.
Everything about it.
The silence and the memories.
My mother was worst.
I’d fired every member of my household staff earlier that day, I couldn’t stand the pitying looks and the not so subtle whispers that followed me from room to room anymore
When my parents came over, that’s how they found me.
Sitting lifelessly in the dark like I’d been unplugged from myself while the twins clung to each other and wailed themselves hoarse.
The twins were two.
Barely old enough to understand words or loss.
I don’t blame them.
Anyone would pour their heart out if they were suddenly motherless, trapped in a world they couldn’t make sense of and unable to form a coherent sentence to ask why she wasn’t coming back.
I just didn’t have anything left to give them.
No tears.
No comfort.
No strength to pretend I was okay for their sake.
Mom lost it and screamed my head off, grief colliding with grief.
I could barely hear her so I left.
I just grabbed my keys and drove off, needing to escape the dark clouds looming over my head.
At least I knew my sons were safe with them.
I was nursing my third—maybe fourth—shot when she walked in.
I noticed her the second she slid onto the stool next to mine, one empty seat between us, and hated that I did.
She waved at the bartender.
“Vodka.” She said.
“Double, straight.
No ice.”
I watched her throw it down her throat, then slumped back on her seat with distant eyes, staring at nothing in particular as the bartender refilled her glass again.
For a crazy second, I wanted to reach over and maybe…offer her some comfort?
The guilt slammed hard and fast.
I turned away, jaw tight, scolding myself for even acknowledging her.
You’re grieving, Lucian.
It’s barely a month since you buried your wife.
What the fuck are you doing noticing another woman?
I downed the rest of my drink and stood up a little too fast.
Straight onto my chest.
Cold vodka soaked through my shirt, hitting my skin.
“Shit,” I muttered, brushing at my clothes.
“Oh my God,” she gasped.
“I—I didn’t mean—I’m so sorry.”
She frantically reached for me, napkin in hand, trying to wipe at the mess.
“Don’t touch me,” I growled, stepping back.
Her lips parted and I looked at her properly for the first time, and her eyes hit me.
Her eyes were bright hazel, that almost seemed to catch light from nowhere, but right now they were puffy and red-rimmed, wide and panicked all at once.
There was something so…so fragile in them too, that I needed to escape from.
I did just that.
I stormed out of the bar, jacket in hand, anger and guilt coiling down my spine like a live wire.
I didn’t even make it to my car.
Instead, I ducked into the poorly lit alley beside the bar, lean against the brick wall, breathing too hard and trying to find my bearings.
Then I heard the footsteps.
She had followed me.
“Hey… wait,” her voice trembled.
“I’m sorry.
Really.
I wasn’t paying attention, I—”
I turned, and she was just standing right there with that crumpled napkin again.
Without any coat or jacket.
“Here, let me—” she started again.
“Stop,” I said in warning.
Her hand froze midair.
She blinked at me, her hazel eyes glistening, and then she collapsed into herself.
Her knees bent slightly, back leaning against the opposite wall, hands covering her face and shoulders shaking.
Her apology came out in soft, rapid bursts.
“I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I just… I didn’t mean to…”
It didn’t stop.
“I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry… I’m such a fucking idiot.
I’m so sorry…”
Not for the vodka on my chest.
Not for the mess she’d made.
She was apologizing for herself.
For whatever she’d walked into the bar trying to forget.
For a moment, I couldn’t move.
Because I knew that kind of pain.
I was wearing it too.
I had come here to drown it, to make it stop, but her presence was aggravating my own pain.
The apologies spilling from her lips were words I had offered over and over at the cold stone of my wife’s grave, and they hit me harder than I expected.
There was no explanation for what I did next.
Only that I had to stop hearing them.
I took two steps forward and closed my mouth over hers.
She froze instantly.
The sobs stopped, the “sorrys” choked off mid-air, replaced by the heat of my lips against hers.
I grabbed the back of her neck, tipped her head, and pressed harder, softening just enough to coax her lips open.
When she gasped, it was a sound I swallowed greedily, slipping my tongue past hers, tasting the trembling that ran through her.
All thought left me.
Logic dissolved as I pressed her against the wall, letting the cool bricks press behind her as I devoured her lips like I hadn’t tasted anything in years, letting the hard, demanding edge of the kiss meet the softness of her yielding.
Her whimper tore through me, and her nails dug into my biceps as I bit her lower lip, tasting the slight metallic tang of her fear and desire.
That friction, that touch, was what finally snapped me back, what made me push away, far too forcefully, chest heaving, mouth still burning from hers.
She stared up at me, eyes wide and glassy, and even in the low light I could see the sheen of my spit mingled with hers on her lips.
Fuck!
“That shouldn’t have happened,” I blurted out.
“Forget that ever happened,” I added, harsher this time, the words tasting like frustration and guilt all at once.
I turned and walked away, leaving her standing there in the cold with my chest burning from the memory of her mouth.
And yet… even after three years of running, of hiding from that night like it had been some dark stain I could scrub away, those sinful hazel eyes were here again, right in front of me.
A ghost I had never been able to shake, a nightmare I’d never had the luxury to forget.
She was here in Brooklyn.
Very much alive and present.
With no possible recollection of that night or who I am.
Everything I thought I’d buried came rushing back, and I realized I had never escaped her… and maybe, I’d never want to.