That surprised me. "What did you hear? And from whom?"
He sighed. "From Dante. I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that he's in rough shape."
That bit of unfair bullshit only made me more determined. I moved closer and he let me. I rubbed up against him, my lips in kissing distance of his again, teasing him. "Let's make it rougher for him, huh?"
"Jesus," he said, and it reminded me so much of Dante that I wrenched away.
I leaned against the bar, flagging down the busy bartender.
He didn't make me wait, in fact stopped what he was doing and came to do my bidding with a smile.
I'd been flirting with him all night, but he wasn't my type. He was tall but his shoulders weren't broad enough. Still, the right smile got me some amazing service.
"Hey, Scarlett," he said, his tone when he said my name making it sound like we were old friends or new lovers. "Another Black Label for you?"
"You're the best, Benny," I told him, leaning forward, shamelessly teasing him. "Can you make it two?"
He nodded, eyes on my cleavage. "Anything you want, gorgeous."
"Wow," Bastian whistled when Benny moved away to get our drinks. "If I was Dante, I would lock you up."
"Well, that's not what he did," I said, and it was an effort to keep my voice steady. "He threw me away. Again."
"Oh, Scarlett," Bastian sighed. "I have a few things to ask you, and so much to tell you. I'm not sure just how drunk you are, but I'm pretty positive that what I have to say will sober you up."
That was an understatement. What he had to tell me didn't just sober me up.
It changed everything.
CHAPTER NINE
"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
~Eleanor Roosevelt
PAST
SCARLETT
I was so mad I was shaking.
It'd been a hell of a morning.
It was my own fault, I knew. It was a Saturday. My grandma was off work on Saturday and Sunday, and on every single one of her days off, no exceptions, she went into a calculated and steady drunk.
She was unpleasant and surly when she was sober. Drunk, she became outright hateful, and if I was stupid enough to stick around, I was automatically the go-to target for all of her animosity.
When I was being smart, which was most of the time, I didn't come home until she was passed out cold, and I left quietly in the morning before she roused.
This morning was one of the exceptions. I'd overslept, somehow even more so than her, and boy was I in for it.
Of course I'd been out late with Dante. Out doing all of the things that would drive her the most crazy, and she always seemed to know it.
But this morning was worse, because instead of her usual tirade where she accused me of things she couldn't prove, this time she'd actually found something to vindicate her venomous rant.
In our defense, Dante and I had hidden the evidence. The crazy woman must have gone outside and dug into the trashcan to find the handful of used condoms that she threw in my sleeping face.
"At least you're the kind of whore that uses protection," she spat.
I was still blinking awake, automatically batting off the sticky objects that she'd flung at me.
When I realized what I was touching, I recoiled, my face drawing tight in distaste.
"What the—?" I grumbled.
"I suppose you think I should be happy? You're one step up from your slut of a mother," she continued, screeching the words.
I wasn't sure what smelled worse, the day old-plus used condoms, or her breath, which was a combination of her usual halitosis, mixed with vomit and liquor—a particularly putrid, if familiar, stench.
"What time is it?" I asked her, voice flat, even, not letting her know that no matter how old I got, she still terrified me. "What are you doing up already?"
My casual tone just set her off more. "What the hell does it matter what time it is?"
"Because usually I'm gone long before you wake up from one of your blackouts. Did you never notice?"
I got a sharp slap across the face for that bit of sass.
"That's all you have to say for yourself? Not even defending your behavior now? Shameless!"
I supposed she was right. I was a bit shameless about what went on between Dante and me. I just couldn't see it as wrong.
Maybe a part of me even wanted to rub it in her face. She'd been telling me I was going to be a whore since I was too young to know what the word even meant.
Now here I was, a sex-obsessed teenager that spent as much of her free time as possible underneath or on top of her equally sex-obsessed boyfriend.
I wasn't sure if you could really call me a whore for having sex with one guy, no matter how many times we'd done it, but I knew my grandma would have no problem doing so.
"You know there's something wrong with you, don't you?" she asked me, voice gone deadly calm, which I knew from experience was even worse than her shouting.
"You're the one digging around in trashcans, looking for used condoms," I muttered back. Sometimes I just couldn't help myself.
I was rewarded with another ringing slap, and then another.
"You think you're so smart," she said, punctuating the words with another slap. "But you're as stupid as your mother. You think you're special, spreading your legs for a Durant? Every girl in the county gave it up to his daddy, and I'm guessing the son's not much different. That boy is going to use you and throw you away, just you watch."