Dance for Me

Chapter Seventeen

I sing, badly. But that doesn't stop me from trying. The next song is "Dance Magic" and I roll right into it, even though I hate David Bowie. I'm much more of a Billy Idol kind of girl.

There is no shame in admitting that you are alone and plastered before dinner time on a Monday, especially if there is no one you know around to see you crashing and burning in a puddle of self-pity.

Why a puddle of self-pity? I'm still trying to figure that out. I just know that there is this ache in my chest that is only dulled by the burn of alcohol, so I keep pouring more, hoping to lose myself so completely that this day will be nothing more than a black hole in my memory. But, after I lose my balance and nearly break my ankle, I do the smartest thing I've done all day—I throw in the towel and drop down on the couch.

The silence that follows drives home how alone I truly am, and when I kill the music, the lively atmosphere in the living room dies along with it.

Life sucks. Anyone who says differently is a liar or an idiot. Taking on the responsibilities of an adult before you know how to be one sucks. Losing both parents before the age of eighteen sucks. Using your body to get by might sound like a fantasy to some, but in reality, it sucks. Knowing you have very little claim on the man you call your boyfriend sucks, too.

From the very first breath we take, we're destined to experience pain. I've experienced enough of it that it's begun to drown out any happiness that might dare come my way. Some days, my senses feel dulled, my emotions diluted. I ignore it all and push on. Otherwise nothing would get done. All of it, every last bit, just plain sucks.

I lift my half-empty glass of scotch and toast the air, then slug it down. The burn feels good, makes me feel alive. Then the lethargy begins to kick in, and I figure, why not have another? Maybe this one will do the trick. There's no one here to tell me to stop, no one here to judge my actions. It's just me and the bottle.

I pour myself another glass. And another. I don't remember crawling into bed, but I do remember waking up in the middle of the night. Just snippets of memory really. The room spinning, my stomach pitching and rolling with it. An unseen hand holding my hair back as I retch into a bucket beside the bed.

When I wake up in the morning, the sheets cling to me. The chill in the room causes goosebumps to erupt on my skin, but I'm sweating, as though I have a fever. The sun spilling through the partially opened curtains blinds me and my head pounds violently.

The humming in my ears is almost as bad—sharp and stabbing, like someone left a power drill running in my skull.

But wait.

I force myself to sit up and my body sways with the effort.

The drill isn't in my head, but somewhere else in the apartment. As I try to assess where exactly it's coming from, it stops. Moments tick by and I watch the doorway. One thought repeats in my head as I wait: A hand held my hair back.

Someone is in my apartment.

Quickly, I sift through my memory, compiling a list of who has a key to my place, but it's like wading through quicksand. My thoughts are sluggish, and by the time I think I've counted everyone, which is practically no one, as Annie and my landlord are the only two people who should have one, it's too late.

Ransom fills the doorway. He pauses when he sees me, a soft smile in his eyes. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

I'm lost for words. I watch him stride into the room, his long legs eating up the carpet so fast my eyes strain to keep up, but I do. Dressed in only a pair of loose fitting jeans that hang low on his hips, revealing a sculpted torso, he's impossible to look away from. Makes it impossible to think.