𝐴𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑| 𝑅𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑇𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑜𝑟 ✔

XXXVIII

I was right. I was right, and I absolutely hated it. Usually when I'm right, I feel smug and proud. Now I just felt heartbroken and destroyed. I knew since the beginning of our relationship– In fact before we even started dating, that he was a heartbreaker. A player. A womanizer. A man-whore. And there was nothing at all that I, or anyone could do to change that. I knew that I was going to be the one left with nothing but a broken heart.
I was right.

I couldn't face going back to that God-awful flat alone. So I took a taxi and headed to a pub. Any pub, I didn't care, I just knew I needed many, many shots of vodka. And maybe the bottle if I'd return 'home' feeling a little violent. 'Home'. A place I used to adore with all my heart, no matter how old, torn-down and cramped it was, I loved it. Now I despise it more than anything – well, the person who lives in it is an exception.

I walked into the rough pub. There was two men fighting on one side of the room, with a crowd surrounding them, people, drunk on the other side, singing about new year.

I felt a bit nervous and uncomfortable just  being here, but I sucked it up and sauntered over to the bar. I ordered a shot of vodka, followed by another and another.

I was on my 6th or 7th shot, now completely intoxicated, when a man sauntered over to my direction. He had tousled, slightly wavy, shoulder length, raven-black hair, brown eyes, and pink lips.

"Can I buy you a...-nother drink?" he asked, grinning wickedly. Sober me would've said 'no' and walked away. Unfortunately he wasn't asking sober me, so stupidly I said 'sure' with the same grin.

He ended up buying both of us bourbon, which made me feel Ill, I had never liked bourbon, but I didn't want to be rude. So I just drank it.

We talked for a little while, laughing for no reason. I learned his name was Michael. He was nice, talkative and he wasn't bad to look at.

"I'm just going to the bathroom, I'll be right back" I excuse myself, as I started feeling sick, due to the alcohol.

"Are you ok?" he asked, sounding slightly concerned, ready to stand up to assist me.

"I'm fine. I'll be back in a minute" I assured, waving a dismissive hand, and stumbling over to the ladies room.

I held onto the sink, looking from the dripping tap to the cracked and spray painted mirror, to look at a corpse-looking face, which belonged to me.

"Christ..." I muttered, rubbing my eyes, causing the mascara and eyeliner to make my eyes look baggy and tired, worsening the state I was in, my lipstick smudged and on the side of my chin.

I turned the tap on, wetting my hands, before splashing the cold water on to my pale face. I still had mascara and lipstick in my purse, so I reapplied both of them, however my eyeliner was a goner. I brushed a hand through my fringe, and sauntered back out, trying will all my might to walk in a straight line.

I ordered a water, to not humiliate myself any further. It was a mystery how Michael was still remotely interested in talking to me, in that state.

"Are you off the drink, now?" Michael asked, sounding as if he were covering dissapointment in his tone.

"Well, I need to sober up a little if I want to get back home" I said, letting out a breathy chuckle.

"Who's house?" he asked, smirking and placing a hand on mine, which was resting on my glass of water.

I smiled and was about to answer, when a familiar voice rang through my ears, answering for me. "Our home" Roger said, defensively, placing a hand on my shoulder.