The Score
Page 90
“Aw baby, don’t do that.” Dean appears in the doorway.
I ignore him and continue packing.
“Allie, please.” He comes up behind me, and I swallow a sob when his strong arms encircle me. For one brief moment, I allow myself to sag against him. To lean into his warm, sturdy chest and feel his stubble scrape my skin as he rubs his cheek over mine. “I’m sorry, baby. I fucked up. I totally forgot your play was tonight.”
I reminded you ten times! I want to shout.
“I promise I’ll be there for tomorrow’s performance.” His hands run up and down my waist, caress my stomach, skim my ass. “You said there’s three shows, right?”
My voice comes out terse. “Yes. But don’t bother coming tomorrow night. I don’t want you there.”
He nuzzles my shoulder with his chin. “Don’t say that. I know you’re pissed, but I’ll make it up to you. I will be there tomorrow.”
“I wanted you there tonight, Dean.” I still can’t bring myself to turn around and look at him. And I don’t know why I’m letting him rub up against me like this. Come to think of it, why is he rubbing against me? I can feel his erection, harder than stone, digging into my ass. How is he turned on right now?
The bizarre response of his body is what prompts me to spin around. Frowning, I carefully study his face, cataloging every detail. He’s not drunk, I realize. His cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are too bright. Which means he’s not stoned either, because his eyes usually get fuzzy after he’s smoked weed. Right now they’re shining. Sparkling with pleasure and happiness that he absolutely should not be feeling, not when I’m standing here in tears.
I inhale slowly. “What are you on?”
He looks confused by the question.
“What are you on, Dean?” I snap “What did you take?”
He blinks, then says, “Oh. Just some molly.”
For fuck’s sake.
Without another word, I shove past him and zip up my suitcase.
“Where are you going?” He sounds hurt.
“Bristol,” I spit out. “I’m not staying here anymore.”
“Why?”
“Why? You blew off my opening night to throw a party and do drugs! You’re hopped up on MDMA, rubbing your dick all over me when I’m fucking crying! And you’re seriously asking me why I’m leaving?”
His eyes cloud over. “I didn’t throw a party. Ollie and Rodriguez called, asked if I wanted to chill, reminisce about Beau. So, what, I’m supposed to say no to that?”
My jaw drops. “Don’t you dare use Beau as an excuse for getting high!”
He flinches, but when he speaks again, his tone is defensive. “Big deal, babe. I took some molly. It’s not like I do it on a regular basis. Last time was more than a year ago.”
“That’s not the point!” I’m struggling to breathe again. There’s no use in arguing with him right now. He can’t hear me, not when he’s on drugs. I exhale, and the air seeps out in a weak puff. “My dad was right. I can’t count on you at all.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been there for you from the start!” He growls. “My best friend fucking died, Allie. So gee, I’m sorry if I’ve been a tad distracted lately. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
His sarcasm isn’t appreciated. “Distracted? You haven’t been distracted. You’ve been drunk! And now you’re goddamn high!” Resentment burns a path up my throat and pricks at my eyes. “Guess what, Dean? People die! It wrecks me that Beau is gone. It. Fucking. Wrecks. Me. But you can’t just drink all the pain away.”
His face turns red.
“I get it, the Life of Dean is all sunshine and roses—” It’s my turn to dish out the sarcasm “—but real life isn’t like that. In real life, bad things happen, and you need to deal with them.”
I pick up my suitcase and march to the door. I stop abruptly, spinning toward him again. I’m so mad and hurt I can’t think straight.
“Life isn’t perfect, Dean, and you need to grow the fuck up and accept that. I’ve been trying to help you, but you won’t let me. I’ve spent almost a month watching you drink yourself stupid. Watching you push everyone away, watching you disappoint everyone around you.”
He still doesn’t say a word, and that makes me angrier.
“I went to Coach Ellis on your behalf!” I shout. “I convinced him to give you another shot for when you decide to come back to coach the team.” The tears fall faster, soaking my cheeks. “I sat with Dakota while she cried her eyes out! She thinks you hate her because she didn’t want to wear goddamn boy skates!” I gasp for air. “Well, I’m not holding your hand anymore or cleaning up your messes. I’m done, Dean.”
His breath sucks in. Finally, something I say gets his attention. “You’re not done.”
“Yes, I am.” My hand is quaking so wildly I almost drop the suitcase on my foot. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? I watched my mother die of cancer. I literally watched her wither away and die.”
“Allie—”
“You need to find a way to deal with your grief. But I can’t be there anymore to help you. I’m not going to stand by and watch you stick your head in a bottle because you’re too afraid to face the pain. I’m done.”
I storm out of the bedroom, leaving him staring after me in shock.
32
Dean
I’m awakened by a loud, agonized groan. Christ, it sounds like someone is dying, and it takes a minute to comprehend that the tortured noise had come from me. I’m groaning, because my head hurts. No, my eye hurts. Why does my eye hurt?
I sit up and gingerly touch my face. My left eye is swollen shut. And my mouth is drier than the Sahara. Shit. I’m so goddamn thirsty. And weary—just the act of lifting my hand to my face has drained me of energy.
The molly, I realize. Last time I took some, it also left me feeling drained and achy the next morning.
I slide out of bed and discover I fell asleep fully clothed. Staggering to the closet, I open the door and study the mirror behind it. Sweet Jesus. My eye is purple bordering on black, and as I study my reflection, all the events of last night come crashing back.
I ignore him and continue packing.
“Allie, please.” He comes up behind me, and I swallow a sob when his strong arms encircle me. For one brief moment, I allow myself to sag against him. To lean into his warm, sturdy chest and feel his stubble scrape my skin as he rubs his cheek over mine. “I’m sorry, baby. I fucked up. I totally forgot your play was tonight.”
I reminded you ten times! I want to shout.
“I promise I’ll be there for tomorrow’s performance.” His hands run up and down my waist, caress my stomach, skim my ass. “You said there’s three shows, right?”
My voice comes out terse. “Yes. But don’t bother coming tomorrow night. I don’t want you there.”
He nuzzles my shoulder with his chin. “Don’t say that. I know you’re pissed, but I’ll make it up to you. I will be there tomorrow.”
“I wanted you there tonight, Dean.” I still can’t bring myself to turn around and look at him. And I don’t know why I’m letting him rub up against me like this. Come to think of it, why is he rubbing against me? I can feel his erection, harder than stone, digging into my ass. How is he turned on right now?
The bizarre response of his body is what prompts me to spin around. Frowning, I carefully study his face, cataloging every detail. He’s not drunk, I realize. His cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are too bright. Which means he’s not stoned either, because his eyes usually get fuzzy after he’s smoked weed. Right now they’re shining. Sparkling with pleasure and happiness that he absolutely should not be feeling, not when I’m standing here in tears.
I inhale slowly. “What are you on?”
He looks confused by the question.
“What are you on, Dean?” I snap “What did you take?”
He blinks, then says, “Oh. Just some molly.”
For fuck’s sake.
Without another word, I shove past him and zip up my suitcase.
“Where are you going?” He sounds hurt.
“Bristol,” I spit out. “I’m not staying here anymore.”
“Why?”
“Why? You blew off my opening night to throw a party and do drugs! You’re hopped up on MDMA, rubbing your dick all over me when I’m fucking crying! And you’re seriously asking me why I’m leaving?”
His eyes cloud over. “I didn’t throw a party. Ollie and Rodriguez called, asked if I wanted to chill, reminisce about Beau. So, what, I’m supposed to say no to that?”
My jaw drops. “Don’t you dare use Beau as an excuse for getting high!”
He flinches, but when he speaks again, his tone is defensive. “Big deal, babe. I took some molly. It’s not like I do it on a regular basis. Last time was more than a year ago.”
“That’s not the point!” I’m struggling to breathe again. There’s no use in arguing with him right now. He can’t hear me, not when he’s on drugs. I exhale, and the air seeps out in a weak puff. “My dad was right. I can’t count on you at all.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been there for you from the start!” He growls. “My best friend fucking died, Allie. So gee, I’m sorry if I’ve been a tad distracted lately. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
His sarcasm isn’t appreciated. “Distracted? You haven’t been distracted. You’ve been drunk! And now you’re goddamn high!” Resentment burns a path up my throat and pricks at my eyes. “Guess what, Dean? People die! It wrecks me that Beau is gone. It. Fucking. Wrecks. Me. But you can’t just drink all the pain away.”
His face turns red.
“I get it, the Life of Dean is all sunshine and roses—” It’s my turn to dish out the sarcasm “—but real life isn’t like that. In real life, bad things happen, and you need to deal with them.”
I pick up my suitcase and march to the door. I stop abruptly, spinning toward him again. I’m so mad and hurt I can’t think straight.
“Life isn’t perfect, Dean, and you need to grow the fuck up and accept that. I’ve been trying to help you, but you won’t let me. I’ve spent almost a month watching you drink yourself stupid. Watching you push everyone away, watching you disappoint everyone around you.”
He still doesn’t say a word, and that makes me angrier.
“I went to Coach Ellis on your behalf!” I shout. “I convinced him to give you another shot for when you decide to come back to coach the team.” The tears fall faster, soaking my cheeks. “I sat with Dakota while she cried her eyes out! She thinks you hate her because she didn’t want to wear goddamn boy skates!” I gasp for air. “Well, I’m not holding your hand anymore or cleaning up your messes. I’m done, Dean.”
His breath sucks in. Finally, something I say gets his attention. “You’re not done.”
“Yes, I am.” My hand is quaking so wildly I almost drop the suitcase on my foot. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? I watched my mother die of cancer. I literally watched her wither away and die.”
“Allie—”
“You need to find a way to deal with your grief. But I can’t be there anymore to help you. I’m not going to stand by and watch you stick your head in a bottle because you’re too afraid to face the pain. I’m done.”
I storm out of the bedroom, leaving him staring after me in shock.
32
Dean
I’m awakened by a loud, agonized groan. Christ, it sounds like someone is dying, and it takes a minute to comprehend that the tortured noise had come from me. I’m groaning, because my head hurts. No, my eye hurts. Why does my eye hurt?
I sit up and gingerly touch my face. My left eye is swollen shut. And my mouth is drier than the Sahara. Shit. I’m so goddamn thirsty. And weary—just the act of lifting my hand to my face has drained me of energy.
The molly, I realize. Last time I took some, it also left me feeling drained and achy the next morning.
I slide out of bed and discover I fell asleep fully clothed. Staggering to the closet, I open the door and study the mirror behind it. Sweet Jesus. My eye is purple bordering on black, and as I study my reflection, all the events of last night come crashing back.
