Broken Course (Wrecked and Ruined #3)(8)

Fuck.





"GET YOUR ass up," I hear Slate say as he walks into my room.


I’m sprawled out on my bed, naked, with an empty bottle of Jack on the nightstand.

"Nice. Really f*cking nice," he bites out, snatching open the curtains.

"Jesus Christ, Andrews!" I toss an arm over my face to shield my eyes from the unwelcome light.

"What the f*ck is wrong with you?"

"Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t aware sleeping was a crime," I snark back at him.

I knew he would come eventually. I just hoped I’d be gone by the time he showed up. But I haven’t had the balls to leave yet.

"She’s called you twenty-seven times. Twenty-seven f*cking times she has dialed your number. Twenty-seven!" he roars, rushing the bed, kicking it at the last second. "We both thought you were f*cking dead. I dropped everything and rushed over here two God damn days before my wedding only to find you passed out in bed. Drunk. What the f*cking hell is wrong with you?!" he screams, throwing the empty bottle of Jack across the room.

I have never seen Slate lose it like this before. It’s alarming and—confusing.

"Chill the f*ck out." I grab my head, trying to slow the pounding inside.

"Right. Of course." He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and throws it at me. "Call her," he demands.

"Can I have a f*cking second to take a piss and maybe put on some clothes?" I snap, dragging myself to my feet only to fall back against the bed when my dizzy head can’t catch up.

Slate strides forward, forcing me to take another clumsy step back. He stops only inches from my face. "You f*cking call her. She’s a wreck. She fought me tooth and nail to come here today, but I was f*cking terrified about what she would find. So pick up that phone and call her. Make sure you tell her goodbye because there is a good chance I’m going to f*cking kill you when you hang up," he growls, but the only words that register are those when he said that Erica is a wreck.

The last thing in this world I want is for her to hurt anymore, so I drag a blanket off the bed and quickly dial her number. The shattered voice on the other end of the phone knocks me completely on my ass.

"Is he alive?" she cries into the phone.

"Babe," I whisper as the realization of her fear levels me. Tears spring to my eyes, and I turn to the wall to conceal them.

"Are you okay?" she asks, but I know it’s not just a surface-level inquiry.

I take a minute to really consider the question. "No," I answer honestly. This is Erica, after all. I owe her the truth at the very least.

"Where are you?"

"At the apartment." I sweep the emasculating tears from my eyes.

"Stay there. Let me talk to Slate," she breathes across the line.

It pains me to hear her concern. I’ve spent almost four years protecting this woman, but over the course of five days without her, I’ve forgotten what it feels like be needed.

"Erica—"

"Forget it. I’ll call him later. I’m on the way." She hangs up.

I toss his phone on the bed, heading into my closet for a moment alone and to grab some clothes. I pull on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt while readying myself for the shitstorm I know is approaching.

Slate is staring out the window when I emerge from the closet. He’s pissed, but this is Slate. We are going to butt heads no matter what.

"Sit down and start talking," he says in a surprisingly patient tone, which he usually reserves only for Erica.

I decide to start with a lie. After all, I’ve spent years telling them—it should be easy.

"I’m just making up for lost time. That’s all. Went out, got a little drunk. I must not have heard my phone when she called."

"Bullshit," he snaps. "She’s been calling you for three days."

"Look, thanks for coming, but I’m not doing this with you."

"You need serious help, Leo. Erica and I have started counseling—"

"I’m glad to see that Erica is getting help, but beyond that, I don’t give two f*cks how awesome counseling is working out for you!" I shout.

No therapist in the world is going to change the decisions I’ve made in the past. I’m not dealing with something that happened to me; I’m crippled by the guilt of something I did. There’s a big difference—one that can’t just be overcome.

"I don’t get this sudden change in you. You are probably the most levelheaded person I know. You’re finally free to live whatever life you want, but you’re spending your days drinking and ignoring the people who love you. You’re having some issues, so let’s figure it out so we can all move the f*ck on."

I’m not sure why his words send fire through my veins. Maybe it’s because the very idea of moving on seems impossible and the words of hope are like dangling a steak in front of a starving man.

I just need someone to hate me as much as I hate myself. I know Erica won’t do it, so Slate’s on deck.

"That night while your beautiful bride was tied to a bed, naked—"

His face morphs and he immediately stops me. "Don’t f*cking do this. You’re not provoking me."

I spit out the venomous words anyway. "You know…when I sent all those men in to rape her."