I waved my hand in the air as though warding off the notion.  “It’s complicated.  He’s as hostile as I am, he just hides it better, but don’t let him fool you—he's a fucking beast when it comes to breaking hearts.

She nodded, her eyes so solemn that I had to look away.  “That I gathered.  I’m sorry I said Anton was your boyfriend.  I thought I was helping, but I made things worse, didn’t I?”

“On the contrary,” I assured her.  “Your interruption couldn’t have come at a better time, so thank you.”

She smiled cheekily, shrugging, “Anytime.”

“What was he doing here?” Anton asked from the sofa.

I looked down at my hands, bracing myself for the pain of saying it aloud.  “Gram died.”

They both gasped.

“Oh no,” Demi uttered softly.

“Not Gram,” Anton muttered, followed by a steady and vehement string of cursing.

Just like anyone important in my life invariably knew at least something about Dante, they also knew about Gram.  She was the only person I considered family and talked about as such.

“What happened?”

“A fatal stroke.  That’s why he was chasing me around.  I guess he didn’t want to tell me over the phone.”

“But he didn’t tell you last night?” Demi asked.

Anton coughed and I glared at him.

“He didn’t.”  I knew they’d heard what he’d said back in my room, or at least enough to suspect, but I had no intention of hashing it out.

“What can I do?” Demi asked, sounding so sincere and concerned that I could hardly stand to hear it.

I nodded at the open bottle of scotch I’d left in the kitchen earlier.  “Hand me that, will you?”

There was only one thing to be done.  Because crying in my room alone held no appeal, and crying in front of other people was even worse—I was throwing one hell of a drunk.

I was hoping this one was more successful than the last attempt.

Or, at the very least, less disastrous.

Demi and Anton didn’t hesitate to join me.

I stopped drinking out of the bottle (because we had company now) and made myself an oversized tumbler of scotch.

Anton and Demi did the same.  Demi despised scotch, so I knew she was just being a good sport.

“I hope you can stomach this stuff,” I told Anton as he took a long swallow.  “It was way too low class for Dante the Bastard.”

“I think it’s fantastic,” he told me, toasting the air.

“You don’t have to drink scotch for me, Demi,” I told her.

She shrugged and toasted at me.  “It’s for your gram,” she said and took a long, painful-looking swallow.

We got good stinking drunk and watched reruns of our favorite reality show, Kink and Ink.

I nodded at the screen at some point after drink number three.  “I’d go lesbian for a day for her,” I told an extremely drunk Demi and a fascinated Anton.

“I’d suffer through some pretty terrible things to see that happen,” Anton said.

Demi shook her head.  “She’s pretty and I like her, but uh uh.  Only boys for me.”

“What about this?  There are only three people left in the world.  You,” I nodded at Demi, “Frankie,” I nodded at the hot lesbian tattoo artist on TV, “and Justin Bieber.  You have five seconds to pick.”

She didn’t hesitate, blurting out “Frankie!” before I’d even finished talking.

We couldn’t stop laughing after that, giggling our asses off.

“I vote that when we sober up we drive to Vegas to get tattoos at her shop,” Demi said at some point.

“It’s only a five-hour drive,” Anton pointed out.  “Four if I’m driving.  What kind of a tattoo do you want, Demi?”

She flushed when he said her name, and it was only in my drunken state that I realized for the first time that sweet Demi had a huge crush on jaded Anton.

Oh no.

I wanted to tell her to run in the other direction.  He was too much like me.  He’d had his heart ravaged by some sadist years ago and what was left of him ate little girls like Demi for breakfast.

I made a note to tell her such when I’d sobered up enough to be taken seriously.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered.  “I’d have to brainstorm about it on the drive.  Something pretty.  With color.”

“What about you, Scar?” he asked me.

I nodded at the TV where someone was currently getting a heart with initials in the middle of their back.  “I’d get the opposite of that.  There are too many love tattoos.  I’d get an anti-love one.”

Anton’s rueful grin came out to play.  When I was in this state, it was really hard to remember why I’d never slept with him.  He was way too good-looking for his own good, beardo, man-bun, and all.  “Yes, yes, we know, Scarlett.  You don’t believe in love.  You’ve said it many times.”

For some reason, that set me off.  I blame the scotch.

“I never said I don’t believe in love,” I said heatedly.  “Trust me, I believe in it.  I know love.  It lives in me still.  Like a cancer, it thrives under my skin, metabolizes in spite of all of my attempts to eradicate it.” I had to take a few breaths I was talking so quickly and passionately.  “What I said was that if you feel yourself falling, you should run like hell.  Avoid it.  If it tries to set its hooks in you, rip them out.  If it tries to shackle you, break the chain.”  I was waving my hands around to illustrate my point.  “Love is never satisfied with half-measures.  It won’t take parts of you.  It will own all of you, every single, longing piece.

“Love will make you its slave,” I stated venomously.  “It will ruin you.  Grind you under its heel until you don’t recognize what’s left.

“Love will take your soul.” I looked pointedly at Demi.  “If you’re very unlucky, it might even turn you into someone like me.

“I do believe in love,” I reiterated.  “I believe it’s the most destructive force on earth.”

When I finished my impassioned rant, they were both just staring at me.

Demi looked like she might cry.  She was hugging Amos, her eyes huge with pity and sorrow.  “Oh, Scarlett,” she whispered.  “I’m so sorry.  Dante is such a bastard.”

Even Anton didn’t look right.  His mouth was twisted bitterly, eyes boring into me, something powerful moving behind them.  “That fucker,” he said succinctly.  “Excuse me.”  He got up and left the room.

Getting his rage in hand, I knew.  He was another one with a wicked temper.  So my type.

Why hadn’t I slept with him again?

“You’ll find love again,” Demi told me tremulously, sounding like she really believed it.  “Just when you least expect it I bet you’ll run into some wonderful man that makes your heart race again.”

I knew better, but I kept my piece.  Demi could stay sweetly naive, her soul light and beautiful.  I didn’t want to take that from her.

But she couldn’t have been more wrong.

There is only one heart in this universe that calls to mine, and it does call.  Constantly, relentlessly, it sings out to me in a captivating, resonating voice.

Day after day, year after year, it calls to me.

But I won’t listen to it.  It belongs to a liar.

When Anton returned, he seemed more or less back to normal, and we didn’t comment on his absence.

We were still huddled on the couch watching people get tattoos, and he rejoined us without a word.

“There’s like a six month waitlist to get ink in her parlor,” I pointed out in true buzz-killer style.  I liked crushing dreams.  It was a hobby of mine.  “And from Frankie herself?  Who knows.  Probably years.  You’d probably have to know somebody.”

“Well, poo,” Demi said.

Anton and I shared a smile.  She was way too adorable for her own good.

Meanwhile on Kink and Ink, someone was crying as they described the reason for their angel tattoo.

“I hate it when this show gets emotional,” Anton said, rising from the sofa to refill our glasses.