This is to confirm that your request of changing the beneficiary on the document, Wicked Hearts Ink, shall be transferred to the beneficiary, Ms. Savannah Young.

Wait...what?

I toss and turn for at least three hours before I finally decide to get up. Having Savannah in my room, if only for a moment, won’t let me drift off to sleep. I don’t fucking know what came over me, why I was so goddamn serious. Why did I ask her all of those questions? Why couldn’t I just kiss her, tear off her clothes, slam her onto the mattress like I wanted to earlier? Fuck, the walls in this room are closing in on me. In nothing but my basketball shorts, I quietly pad out of the room and down the hallway.

As I pass Hazel’s room, I can’t help but think about her quickly slipping away. She has never called me Ryder before. It stings a little, to look into her eyes and know she doesn’t recognize me. But Ruby warned me of this. This is a natural part of the process. The body and the mind slowly slipping away, and it just pisses me off.

I need to let out some aggression, in a serious way.

I could go for a midnight ride. Those are always nice for distracting me when I’m wound tight as a knot. I could even stop by the bar; there’s at least an hour before it closes, which is plenty of time to pick up one of the lingering girls there waiting for a guy to come and take her home. But that’s not right for this feeling either.

It’s like I’m being torn in two. Grief over Hazel. Aggravation over Savannah.

After sifting through Hazel’s old liquor stash, I pour myself a small glass of Jameson. It goes down easy...too easy. So I pour another.

Drinking is never really my go-to stress relief, but tonight it hits the spot. The spreading warmth is like a warm embrace that eases the tension in my back.

Once I’ve poured my third, I find myself feeling more and distant, ready to crawl back into bed. Then a silhouette on the patio snatches my attention. I stare for a moment, trying to decide which of the women I’m currently living with it is.

But then she turns her head, and her perky ponytail gives her away. Quickly, I slink outside, being as quiet as I can as I pass through the open door and onto the rugged porch. She tenses when she hears me step nearer. If I hadn’t just downed three glasses three fingers full, I would have announced my presence or sat down, teasing her about being awake so late, but the alcohol gives me an edge that doesn’t make me filter my words or my actions. It has me feeling invincible and without a fuck to give.