“Makes sense.” Surely she’s not planning on leaving yet? It seems as if she can’t afford anywhere else. Still, I know it won’t be long before V needs the room. I don’t particularly want to bring it up, because that’d lead to more questions. I don’t want to put her under pressure, and besides, there’s no need to push her to leave when there’s still time.

She picks up her sexy-arse black glasses and slips them on. I can’t look away. Something about those damn glasses. With each letter she opens, my dick grows harder. I’ve got a right mind to slip my hand into those sexy shorts she’s wearing. For a second, when we were in the shower earlier, I was sure that once I got naked something would happen. Not that I wanted to take advantage of her while she was fragile, but she drives me so fucking crazy. The friction between us just does something to me … it makes me want her. Surely she senses it too? Once I was naked though, she couldn’t get out of the bathroom quick enough. What the fuck was up with that?

She opens the last of the letters and then sighs loudly. In short, sharp bursts she draws breath. A lone tear glides down her flushed face.

What the fuck? One second she’s fine and the next she’s turned to water?

“Suds, what’s wrong?”

She glances up, and her glassy eyes drill into me. It’s as if someone kicked me fair in the chest with a big heavy boot. She screws up the final letter and tosses it on the coffee table and then stands and walks zombie-like into the kitchen. She reaches for my bottle of Patron from the top shelf and a small glass. I’d put it up high for a reason.

I stalk after her. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, more forcefully this time.

With a shaky hand she fills the glass, which holds at least three standard shots. The clear liquid spills down the side of her mouth as she takes large gulps. When the liquid is gone, she wipes her lips with the back of her hand and slams the glass on the counter.

“I just can’t get a fuckin’ trick.”

Again, the glass is refilled. She drinks then storms off to her room without another word.

She harps on at me for drinking alcohol, and then slams down, what? Six shots in thirty seconds?

I’ve gotta read that letter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SOPHIE

They’re taking my shit-box of a car. That’s the grim reality of it. They’re playing hard ball, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I know I’ve had countless warnings. I know the bank’s threats are never empty, but I was just hoping that it would never come to this. It’s the only asset I have of any real value. Five to six thousand dollars at best. They’re cutting off my way of getting around, which will hinder me when it comes to getting a job. It’s taking away part of my independence. I might as well be sixteen again, relying on public transport to get from A to B.

I have no one I can ask for a loan. The bank won’t touch me after he maxed out our credit cards and they cut them up. I know April would bail me out, but I can’t expect that from a friend. Not when she’s got her whole life ahead of her, not to mention planning and paying for a wedding. Money only ruins relationships. She’s already paying for my trip to Vegas, and I’m not about to burden her with this or jeopardise our friendship.

In slow circles, I twist the solid platinum band with diamonds on my right ring finger. I could sell my grandmother’s ring, but how could I? Nana was the only one who believed in me. She didn’t judge. She just wanted me to be happy.

Fuck it. As if I can fight this. They can take my car, because I won’t give this up.

I pick up the silver frame by my bedside table with the photo of the two of us. Nana was five years sober in this shot. Her silver hair is set in curls, just like she’d get done at the hairdresser every Friday, and her blue-green eyes are shining with the reflection of the sun through the trees in her cottage garden. She’s wearing the purple cardigan that she never wanted to part with. I miss her so goddamn much.

As my vision begins to blur, I know that the tequila has well and truly kicked in. My insides are like a raging fire and my head is swooning.

I may have been a little dramatic out there. I mean, what was I thinking? How am I going to help steer Rocco away from the bottle when I’ve just performed like that? I’m only reinforcing that when life goes to shit, you should drink through it. It’s not the message I want to send, especially to him, but I was on autopilot. I just needed to feel numb.

I need a new job like I need my next breath.

With the comforter wrapped tight around me, I bury my head in my pillow and cry like a fucking sissy. Anyone would think I just sculled a cup of gin. I’m so pathetic.

****

ROCCO

She could have been seriously injured. What if she’d hit her head, or worse still, broken bones? And she was worried about paying rent. I meant it when I said I didn’t give a fuck about it. I don’t. I’m more worried about what’s really going on here.

I pick up the letter, and as I scan over each line I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

The bank is going to seize her car. She’s right. She can’t get a fucking trick. It’s no wonder she just downed that much booze. This bullshit is enough to drive someone to drink.

Suds needs to talk to someone. Given the shit we’ve already talked about, maybe she’ll talk to me more. It’s sad that even though she’s so close to April, that when shit like this happens she bottles it up and keeps it to herself. She soldiers on, determined not to burden anyone with her problems. I know exactly what that’s like.

I knock on her bedroom door—yes, I learnt my lesson—and wait for some kind of sound that lets me know I’m clear to enter without being inflicted with grievous bodily harm.

A curt ‘what’ is grunted.

The wooden door creaks as I pry it open. The moonlight is streaming through the partially open blind, enough to make out her figure curled up under the covers, and her long hair tangled over her pillow.

I pull back the corner of the covers and slip in behind her and place my hand on her upper arm. She shifts her body to face me.

“Can’t I even cry around here in peace?” she grumbles, but there’s a hint of humour to her tone.

“I read the letter,” I tell her. No point beating around the bush.

A heavy sigh leaves her lips. “You don’t need to worry about me.” She sniffs.

“I am worried about you, whether you fuckin’ want me to or not.”

“I’m tired, Rocco. Tired of struggling.”

“Wanna tell me why the bank’s beating down your door?”

“It’s all his fault.”

“Who’s?”

There’s a long silence between us, and I wonder if she’s about to kick me out or start crying again.

“Four fucking long years, Rocco. I’ve been paying off a debt left to me care of Prince Fuckface.”

“What the fuck? What happened?”

“Rewind four years when I was engaged. That was my first mistake.”

“Okay,” I say, to keep her talking.

“I went into the relationship blind. Of course back then, I had my parents’ full support. Their daughter was going to marry an established businessman with a prominent family, and it was going to be a big, lavish wedding. I was stupid and naïve, and didn’t think twice buying a house in joint names with this man. I was going to be with him forever.”

“How did it turn to shit?”

“The cracks were there, but I didn’t piece it all together until it was too late. The engagement ring he was getting designed was taking months longer than it should have. We weren’t eating out as much, and he downgraded his Mercedes S-Class coupe to an E-Class. The bank statements stopped coming in the mail. As far as I knew, his business was doing well. All my savings and every spare cent I earned went into our joint account, which we used to offset the home loan to pay less interest. I didn’t question it. It made sense.”