Page 41 of Worth Every Game

Shame and self-loathing roll over me, as thick and dark as tar. I was a fool to think I could handle this.

15

JACK

The moment I open the front door, I know something’s wrong. I don’t know how I know, I just do, and that eerie sixth sense makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The house is dark, as though no one’s home. It normally smells like exotic cooking, but tonight it smells like furniture polish. It smells the way it used to before Elly moved in and started attacking my kitchen with a flair that I hadn’t anticipated.

“El?”

No response.

I flip on the lights in the hall and make my way to the kitchen, and what I see makes my stomach lurch. Elly is slumped over the kitchen counter, arms akimbo, her head lolling to one side.

Fear swoops in my gut.Fuck.She’s dead. She’s fucking dead.

I rush towards her, catching sight of the empty bottle of wine and the half-empty glass with lipstick on the side that sits on the island next to her.

She groans, and the side of her face distorts where it’s stuck to the granite, and I get a shot of relief. She’s really,reallydrunk, but not dead.

I put a hand on her shoulder and shake her gently. “El?” She groans again.Responsive, thank God. I drop down beside her, my legs weak with after-effects of the adrenaline. “I thought you were dead.”

“Lansen. You’re home,” she slurs. “Missed you.”

Missed you?The booze must have addled her brain, but I don’t care. I’m practically soaring with relief because she hasn’t died in my kitchen. If she wasn’t so drunk, I’d kiss her.

I keep my hand on hers. “You drank a whole bottle of wine?”

Her eyes flutter open. “Yah.” She makes the word long and slow.

I pick up the empty bottle and check the label.Domaine Leroy.Fuck. She’s polished off a thirty-grand bottle of wine like a teenager downing a litre of peach schnapps, but the hint of irritation I feel dissolves in an instant. There’s no way she got this drunk for no reason. “Next time, wait for me to come home before you crack open the good stuff.”

She waves her index finger indiscriminately in my direction, as though she can’t quite see where I am. She’s probably seeing three of me. “You want to get drunk with me?” She gives me drunk eyes that are obviously supposed to be sexy or seductive or something to that effect, but she only succeeds in looking more violently inebriated.

“That would be safer all round. What happened?”

“Not telling you, Mr Perfect.” She blows a sloppy raspberry at me, slumps back down, and closes her eyes. “Your life is perfect. You have it all. A perfect fucking life. Money, career, looks…”

Where is this coming from?“What happened? Did someone upset you?” An unprecedented flare of rage bursts through me at the idea that someone caused her to come home and drink herself stupid. “Who was it? What did they say?” She shrugs, but that’s not enough of an answer to satisfy me. “Tell me who it was, El. Tell me who hurt you.”

Her eyes are still closed when she slurs, “No one. No one hurt me. I did it. Me. I hurt me. I’museless.”

What the hell is she talking about?I’m confused, but at least there isn’t another party involved. “No, you aren’t. I won’t let you think that.”

“A perfect body. You have that too,” she says, circling back to her previous line of conversation as if we never deviated.

“You think that’s all you need for a perfect life?”

She stutters a drunken moan, and tears leak from the corners of her eyes; because of the tilt of her head against the island, they dribble down the side of her nose. She’s not sobbing. She’s leaking tears. I can’t tell if she’s really upset, or just incredibly drunk. Probably both.

I wipe the tears away with my thumb, stroking her cheek. Her skin is so soft. I haven’t touched her this intimately since that night at the racetrack when we nearly kissed. She doesn’t react, but when she exhales it sounds like a small, satisfied purr.

“Love,” she whispers. “Love too. Then you’d have everything you need for a perfect life.”

A wry laugh seeks to escape my mouth, itching in the back of my throat.Is that what I need?I’m not sure love is on the cards for me, because the cards all bear the faces of very specific women, chosen by my mother. I’m not going anywhere near that shit.

“Ah. My life is definitely not perfect then.” I wipe another tear from her face, and she stares up at me. If she wasn't so drunk, her eyes half-glazed, the moment would be unbearably intense. In sobriety, it would easily reach a level of intimacy we haven’t shared before.