Twisted-Games

RHYS
MY FIRST TASTE OF ALCOHOL BURNED. SO DID THE SECOND. BY THE TIME I
made it through half the bottle of whiskey, however, it’d stopped burning and
started numbing, which was the best I could’ve hoped for.
In the two days since Bridget ended things, I’d spiraled. Hard. I hadn’t
left my hotel room since I returned from the hospital–partly because I had
nowhere to go and partly because I had zero interest in dealing with the
paparazzi. I had enough problems without getting charged with assault.
I lifted the bottle to my lips as I watched The Daily Tea. The hospital
discharged Edvard yesterday, and now that the king was no longer in mortal
danger, the press had dived back into breathless speculation about me and
Bridget.
If they only knew.
The whiskey seared down my throat and pooled in my stomach.
I should turn the show off because half the shit they came up with was
utter crap—like their claims Bridget and I had an orgy with a certain pop star
couple in the south of France—but as masochistic as it was, their video clips
of her were the only way I could get my fix.
I wasn’t addicted to alcohol, not yet, but I was addicted to Bridget, and
now that I no longer had her, I was going through withdrawal.
Clammy skin, nausea, difficulties sleeping. Oh, yeah, and a giant fucking
hole the size of Alaska in my chest. That wasn’t listed on the Addicts
Anonymous website.
I can’t be with a bodyguard. I’m meant to be with a duke.
Days later, and the memory still cut deeper than a serrated hunting knife.
Bridget hadn’t meant it. I knew that. The words were cruel, and she was