Whiskey & Wine

2. Hurricane

No matter how many times that you told me you wanted to leave
No matter how many breaths that you took you still couldn't breathe
No matter how many nights that you'd lie wide awake to the sound of the poison rain
Where did you go, where did you go, where did you go...

She heard him move the stool and sit down, clearing his throat and she turned in her seat. "You look good, Rin," he hummed appreciatively, shamelessly taking her in and she simply rolled her eyes. Passing him a folder of papers, he took them, glancing over them quickly.

"Ross gave into all your demands," she sighed. Of course he had. The Howlies were the cash cow of Thunderbolt Records. He couldn't afford to lose them. Bucky smiled, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lighting one up.

Offering her one, she shook her head. Another habit she'd given up, only to trade for a few new ones. She motioned to the bartender for a refill. "Just have to sign off on it," she said, glancing at her watch again. "Got somewhere more important to be?," he asked sarcastically and she let out a soft breath.

"You know I do."

Ah, he thought to himself, the boyfriend. Just another hurdle to get to her. One more thing keeping her from being his again.

Ignoring her buzzing phone, she finished her drink. "Drop then off when you're finished with them," she told him, tucking her phone into her jacket pocket and furrowed her brow when he reached out for her. "One more drink, Rinnie? For me?"

Corine had to fight the urge to stay. He always had some kind of effect over her, despite her heart's protests. She and Bucky had always been polar opposites. Oil and water. Whiskey and wine. Like a damn hurricane.

"Can't," she muttered, downing the rest of her drink and setting the glass down on the bar. "I have plans plus I need to be back in the city." She checked her watch one more time. She knew someone was waiting for her in Manhattan, yet she didn't want to go. Her heart wasn't in it anymore.

"How's Scott?," he muttered sarcastically and she rolled her eyes. This wasn't a conversation she wanted to have. Not with him, not with anyone if she was completely honest. "He's fine," she replied curtly, standing up. His expression didn't go unnoticed.

"Just fine? You don't sound like a woman in love, Rinnie," he smirked and she wanted to punch him. "My relationship is none of your business," she shot back, already annoyed. "I have to go, James. Drop the papers off at the office next time you're in SoHo."

And with that, she turned to go.

Bucky watched her saunter out of the bar. He hated it, all of it. Her relationship with Scott. The preppy fuck she'd met at Rutgers. The one that stole her away from him. But no, he'd done that to himself, hadn't he? Too many drugs. Too many groupies. He'd driven the love of his life away.

Checking his coat pocket, he fiddled with the little baggie, debating whether to take a hit there or wait. The bump would make him forget. Forget about his pain. That fucking ache in heart. The one he felt every time he thought of Corine.

It hadn't always been like this.

They'd been in love since childhood. Connected. Like soulmates. He knew in his heart from a young age that she was meant to be his. That he'd do anything in the world to have this beautiful girl. She was something special, gorgeous. Funny. Sexy and erotic. Everything a man could want.

And she adored him. Encouraged him. Paved his way to stardom. Held his hand along the way. And then one day, everything changed. He ruined it. One damn mistake. One night of drinking too heavily, too fucked up to think properly.

And he ruined everything.

So he filled the hole with drugs. Alcohol. Pills. Plain and simple addiction. Groupies between the sheets. Hangovers. Overdoses. Too many damn stints in rehab, only to relapse days or weeks later. He was lost, too far gone. And all because of himself.

Only one to blame here was Bucky.

He gave Corine credit. She tried. She did everything she could. She was patient, too damn patient with him. She'd cover for his ass in the press. Clean up his messes. Put groupies in cabs. Pay for trashed hotel rooms. She did it all. And he knew in his mind, that wouldn't last.

She was tired. He could see it in her eyes, tired of all of it. Tired of the lifestyle. Tired of him.

And he didn't blame her.

He pulled the baggie from his pocket and took the bump. He needed it. Needed to forget tonight. Catching a cab, he headed home. Downing half a bottle of Jack, he waited for the inevitable darkness to take over. To sleep. To ignore that pain, the one that grew bigger and bigger every time she walked away from her.

He wanted so desperately to be what she needed him to be. The man she'd loved, the one so full of life and light. The one with his whole life ahead of him. But he was gone. He was a shell of that person, like an echo. His heart wrenched, thinking about her. In Manhattan with Scott. Living the life she deserved.

The one Bucky knew he'd never be able to give her.