Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Ohh, what’s that?” I ask, pointing across the street at a line of people waiting to get into a bar.
“That’s my buddy’s place,” he tells me.
“Go in, if you can,” Mason encourages. While it’s a little confusing to have a voice in my head like this, I feel safe knowing Mason can hear everything that’s going on. I’m not quite sure where they are parked this time, but it’s nearby.
And that brings me so much comfort.
Enzo goes to the front of the line and the bouncer gives him a one-armed hug. He turns to me, grin on his face, thinking I’m going to be impressed that he got us in. We push our way up to the bar and he ordered two Old Fashioneds. This guy doesn’t pay attention at all. I’ve never ordered an alcoholic drink when we’ve been out and when he’s put one in front of me, I haven’t drank it.
I perch on the edge of a bar stool and Enzo creeps up next to me, putting himself between my legs. A band starts to play, so loud I can’t talk without shouting. Great. I won’t be able to hear Mason and he probably won’t be able to hear anything I say either.
“Mira!” someone calls, and I’m not sure I hear them at first over the music. “Mira!”
I turn and my blood goes cold. It’s Cory. He has a beer in his hand that he’s sloshing all over as he wobbles his way toward us. I turn back to Enzo, and look down, putting my mouth closer to the wire hidden in my bra.
“Mayday,” I say. “Mayday!”
“Mira,” Cory says again and pushes someone out of the way. He’s looking right at me.
“You mean Mya?” Enzo puts his arm around me. Normally, a man being possessive is hot. Everyone wants to be desired and protected, but the way he goes about it is just gross, reminding me of a kid not wanting to share his toys. They’re not even toys he necessarily wants to play with, he just doesn’t want anyone else using them.
“Mira,” Cory presses.
“No, sorry. My name is Mya.”
Cory lets out a snort of laughter and takes a big gulp of his beer. “Don’t fucking play games with me.” He slams the glass on the bar top. “That’s what she does, you know. She pretends to be people she’s not and fucks up relationships. Mira fucking Martin is her name. Look her up. She’s famous and thinks she’s better than everyone else! She hates men and teaches women to not need us.”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” I say to Enzo. It’s so loud in here I don’t think Mason can hear anything. “He’s drunk and thinks I’m someone else.”
“She’s my ex-wife,” Cory blubbers on. “Mer-rah.”
Enzo’s eyes narrow, looking from Cory to me again.
“I can prove it!” Cory goes on and tries to get his phone from his pocket. He’s drunk and fumbles, dropping it onto the ground.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, feeling all shaky. It’s so easy to slip back to scared, powerless Mira around Cory. I know he’s the weak one. He’s the one who has already lost everything and is so unhappy and miserable with himself that he has to project it onto me.
I curl my toes and press them against the sole of my shoes. Cory is a small, small man. He is a true sociopath and will never be happy without taking happiness from someone else. I get hit with another memory of him screaming at me, saying our big, fancy house was going to be mistaken for a trailer because I had mismatching towels in the powdered room.
I didn’t know better then and engaged in an argument, saying that there was nothing wrong with living in a trailer to start with and that if anyone comes into our near million dollar home and gets confused over mismatching towels to the point where they think they’re suddenly in a trailer, that’s on them.
He pulled the towels off the towel rack and whipped them at me. The corner of one hit me right in the eye and it hurt like crazy. But I was a baby, I was dramatic and a liar when my eye swelled up. Because it was just a little piece of cloth that hit me and it wouldn’t hurt that bad. No, I faked it all, even though I documented photos of the progression of how my eye got pretty fucking bad.
Cory snuck onto my phone the next week and deleted all the photos. He had done the same when he pushed me over while I was doing yoga, causing me to face plant off my yoga mat onto a wooden floor.
But I fell. I lost my balance and fell. It was my fault. It wasn’t his, even though he was the one who shoved my foot off the side of the couch, where I had my toes resting to help me keep balance.