Jared Mission
After practice, I sat at the hotel bar, milking a double whiskey. Guilt twisted my gut, reminding me of how I had hurt the one person I cared about. I thought for sure she'd leave him when she found out. I underestimated how much she loved him.
Regret filled me. My selfishness hurt her—something I never wanted. I needed her to see how much I cared about her.
"Move along," I grumbled, sipping my drink, when someone flopped down in the empty chair beside me.
"I'm not here for you, asshole," she snapped. "Bartender, tequila, please," she ordered.
Glancing at the woman, my heart stopped. Her long red hair covered her face, and she reminded me of Winter before she cut her hair.
The bartender came over and poured her a shot. She hissed as she downed it. "Leave the bottle."
