One Dirty Night - Page 95

“Uh-oh.”

The burger in my belly did little to soak up the two bottles of tiny champagne I’d sucked back or the four miniature Jack Daniels, courtesy of the minibar.

I hadn’t looked at the price list.

I figured it was either alcohol or therapy, and alcohol would be cheaper.

Didn’t matter that I also knew the statistics of alcoholic organ dysfunction and why governments kept increasing taxes on liquor to try their best to stop people from drinking the stuff. Didn’t matter that I’d personally dissected livers that’d given up from too much drinking, doing our best to formulate a drug that reversed such damage.

Right now…I wanted to be smashed.

Because if my brain was pickled, then my thoughts would be nonsense, and I could go to sleep without thoughts of him.

Him.

My blue eyes welled with angry tears as I looked at my reflection again.

Damn him.

Screw him.

Good riddance.

Go to stupid Singapore, you stupid jerk.

Stay alone forever.

Find some stunning Singaporean girl.

See if I care.

Spitting out minty froth, I rinsed my mouth, tore off my skirt and blouse, ripped off my bra and knickers, then padded naked back to bed.

No lights glowed, only the harsh blue flickers of the TV.

I’d never felt so sorry for myself.

Never allowed myself to slip into such a sorry state of affairs.

Even when my parents died, I kept my chin high and did what they would’ve expected me to do. They always called me their little scholar. Always rolled their eyes at my determination to learn all the things instead of playing.

They’d wanted me to have a childhood and be reckless. To climb trees, swim in lakes, and make mistakes. But even as a young girl, I preferred to sit on the shore and read heavy texts. I spent Friday nights in my room watching YouTube and subscribing to cardiologist channels and naturopaths, chiropractors and brain surgeons, studying medicine in all facets so I was prepared for when it came time to go to university.

I’d never snuck out.

Never drank underage.

Apart from losing my virginity because I was sick of it classifying me as a kid, I never did anything rebellious.

They’d encouraged me to have a life outside of study, of course, but I was happiest with pages spread and words jumping from the paper. When they died, I buried myself even deeper into books because I was their little scholar, and knowledge would protect me from the emotional fallout of losing them.

And it’d worked…until now.

Now…I felt their loss far, far too keenly.

Books couldn’t save me.

Words held no power.