2
1755 Words
2
After Hazel stormed out of the room, the woman who had been clinging to Brooks finally found her voice. She looked at Brooks, his face had blood which was already dripping onto his shirt. She was too frightened and let out a scream that pierced through the bass of the music.
"Somebody help! He’s bleeding! Brooks is hurt!”
Few people walked in, hands trying to press napkins against his face and people shouting to call the cops. But Brooks just sat there, his eyes fixed on the door Hazel had disappeared through. He swiped at the blood with a shaky hand, his expression unreadable.
"Forget it," he spat, his voice low and jagged. "No police. Just leave it.”
While the bar descended into a frantic scramble, Hazel was already on the bus. She was curled into a ball in the back corner, her face buried in her palms. Every sob felt like it was tearing a hole in her lungs. She couldn't breathe, and she didn't care. She had left her car back at the bar because the world was spinning too fast to drive.
She thought back to the beginning. Her friends had warned her. ‘He acts like a kid, Hazel,’ they’d said. ‘He’s reckless. He’s a bottomless pit for trouble.’ But Hazel had been under a love spell at that time. She had seen a spark in Brooks that she thought she could fan into a flame. But Instead, she had just burnt her own hands.
Brooks worked at the bar, making decent money, but it disappeared very fast. He bought designer clothes he couldn't afford and free drinks for people who didn't even like him. Hazel was the one who paid for the dinners. Hazel was the one who slipped cash into his wallet when he was short. She was the one who spent her weekends scrubbing his apartment and washing his laundry while he slept off hangovers.
And what did she have to show for it? Nothing.
She reached up and yanked the necklace from her throat. It was a rough, ugly stone pendant—the only gift he’d ever given her in years. She looked at it with pure loathing. She wanted to hurl it out the bus window, to watch it shatter on the pavement, but the thought of hitting a passerby stopped her. With a snarl, she shoved it into the bottom of her bag.
“I fed my whole heart to a dog,” she whispered to the empty seat in front of her. “And he didn't even say thank you.”
She was busy wishing every curse she ever knew on him when the bus suddenly lurched. There was a screech of tires and a sickening thud. Hazel’s forehead slammed into the metal railing of the seat in front of her.
"Ow! What the hell?" she yelled,
The bus was a chorus of angry voices. "Watch it, driver!" someone shouted from the front.
The driver stood up, looking frazzled. "Engine's dead, folks. Everyone out. You'll have to wait for the next line."
Hazel stumbled off the bus, her head throbbing and her heart still feeling completely shattered. She looked around the unfamiliar street. It was gray, dusty, and lonely. And then, she saw it. A nondescript bar tucked between two warehouses.
She had never been a big drinker. She didn't have the stomach for it, and she definitely didn't know if she had the budget. But today, the rules were gone. She wanted to feel nothing. She wanted to drown the memory of Brooks Wilder in a sea of alcohol and wake up tomorrow as a stranger to herself.
She pushed through the heavy wooden door, her chin tilted up in a fake show of confidence. She marched straight to the counter.
"Give me a dozen beers!" she said.
The bartender, who was busy polishing a glass, froze. He looked at the empty bar, then back at this disheveled woman with tear-streaked cheeks.
"I’m sorry, miss," he said gently. "We’re actually closed for a private event today. You’ll have to find somewhere else."
That was the breaking point. The dam burst.
"A private event?" Hazel shrieked, her voice cracking. "Are you kidding me? My boyfriend is a cheating scumbag, my bus broke down in the middle of nowhere, and now I can't even get a drink? Is the universe laughing at me?!”
The bartender winced. "Miss, please—"
"Is there a sign? I didn't see a sign!" She pounded her fist on the table. "Do you think I’m broke? I have money! I’m staying, and I’m drinking, and if you try to move me, I’ll scream!"
Hazel sighed and collapsed onto a barstool and started sobbing again, big, ugly heaves that shook her whole body. The bartender looked panicked. He glanced toward a dark corner of the room where a man sat alone in the shadows.
The man didn't move. He just gave a small, almost invisible nod.
The bartender sighed with relief. "Okay, okay. Don't cry. I'll get you a beer.”
He set a cold bottle in front of her. Hazel didn't even use a glass. She took a long, bitter swig, then another. She had talked a lot about a dozen beers, but by the third bottle, the room was tilting. The anger, which had been a simmering heat, was now a roaring fire fueled by the alcohol.
"Brooks Wilder!" she screamed at the empty rows of liquor bottles. "You absolute jerk! You called me plain? You called me boring?"
She slammed her hand down so hard the half-empty bottle rattled.
"I got into the top university in the country! I don't need tutors! I’m smart, I’m hardworking, and you... you’re just a f*****g loser who can't even fold his own socks! How dare you call me dumb!"
In the corner, the man’s ears perked up. Brooks Wilder? He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes narrowing.
Hazel was deep in her rant, swearing at the air, when a glass of ice-cold lemon water slid into her field of vision. She looked up, blinking rapidly. A man was sitting on the stool next to her. He was tall, wearing a crisp black shirt that hugged his broad shoulders.
"If you can't hold your liquor, you should stop," he said. His voice was cool and smooth.
Hazel’s brain was a fog. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she saw the expensive watch and the way he carried himself. Her drunk brain made a quick, wrong connection. She’d seen guys like this at the bar Brooks’ worked—they are men who got paid to flirt with lonely women.
"Oh, look at you," she giggled, leaning in close until she could smell his expensive cologne. She threw a heavy arm over his shoulder, nearly knocking his drink over. "I have money, pretty boy! I don't want water. Drink with me! If you’re any fun, I’ll give you a massive tip."
The bartender’s jaw dropped. He looked like he wanted to jump over the counter and pull her off. "Miss, you really shouldn't—"
The man in black raised a hand to silence him. A small, dangerous smile played on his lips. "It's fine. Bring the lady what she wants. And bring me another."
"Y-yes, Mr. Edward," the bartender stuttered.
The man, Charles Edward, looked at Hazel. She was leaning against him now, her head lolling. "So," he murmured. "What’s the story with Brooks Wilder?"
"That asshole?" Hazel sneered, her words tripping over each other. "He said... he said he’d marry me. After I graduated. Little liar. He’s just a little boy playing at being a man."
She tried to say something else, something about how much she hated his stupid stone pendant, but her eyes felt like lead. Her head hit the bar top with a dull thunk, and she was out cold.
"What now, boss?" the bartender whispered.
Charles reached into Hazel’s open bag and pulled out her wallet. He flipped it open to her ID. Hazel Penelope Ward.
"Take her to the guest apartment upstairs," Charles said, his voice turning cold and professional again. "And find out exactly who Brooks Wilder is. I want everything.”
•
•
•
Hazel woke up the next afternoon with a headache.
She groaned, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the windows. She expected to feel the lumpy mattress of her dorm room. Instead, she felt silk.
She bolted upright, ignoring the spike of pain in her temples. She looked around to notice that the room had furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Then, she looked down. She wasn't in her clothes. She was in a pair of soft, oversized silk pajamas.
"Oh no," she whispered, her heart thumping very hard. "Oh, no, no, no."
She scrambled out of bed, heart racing. She found her clothes neatly folded on a chair. She quickly dressed up in a frantic blur, grabbed her bag, and sprinted for the door. She burst into the living area, ready to run for her life, but stopped dead.
Sitting at a glass dining table was a man she could barely recognize.
He was terrifyingly handsome. She had always thought that Brooks was the most beautiful man she had ever met but this man made him look like a rough sketch. He was wearing a dark silk robe, loosely tied, showing a chest that looked like it was carved from marble. He was sipping coffee, looking as calm as a lake at dawn.
He looked up, his sharp eyes pinning her to the spot.
"Awake?" he asked.
Hazel couldn't speak. Her mouth was dry. She looked at him, then at the room, then back at his half-open robe. Her face went from pale to bright crimson in three seconds.
"I... you... last night..." she stammered, clutching her bag like a shield. "Did we... Did something happen?"
Charles watched her. He had planned to tell her the truth—that a lady had changed her clothes and she had spent the night snoring on top of the covers. But there was something about the way she was looking at him, so panicked and small, that stirred a streak of mischief in him.
He set his coffee cup down with a slow, deliberate click. He leaned back, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face.
"Last night?" he repeated, his voice dropping with mischief. "Last night, Penelope, we did everything.”
- Writer
