“Where are you?”

“Lusso.”

“Does it involve alcohol?”

“Depends who’s drinking,” I reply, perching on the edge of a lounger and taking some deep breaths. John’s silence spells confusion, so I elaborate. “Ava’s here. Pissed as a fart.”

“You plan on joining her?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, I fear what I’m about to do would be worse than me cracking open a bottle of vodka.” I’m speaking without thinking, my motor mouth working faster than my twisted mind in this mayhem.

“What the fuck are you going to do?”

I fall to my back on the lounger and stare at the black sky. What can I say? The truth? He’ll have me sectioned. I deserve to be sectioned. And Ava would be well within her rights to walk away. Should I be giving her another reason to do that? Fuck me, I’m losing it. And before I confirm that to John beyond all doubt, I need to think quickly. “I roughed up her ex-boyfriend tonight,” I say quietly.

His sigh is loud and exasperated. “What is with you lately?” he asks. I wonder that myself. “How bad?”

“Well, he won’t be touching Ava again.”

“How bad?” he growls.

“He might have a few bruises around his neck.” He’s lucky I didn’t break his fucking legs.

“You said you’re about to do something monumentally stupid.”

“I want to find him and finish the job.” That’s not a lie; I do, but Ava’s dickhead ex is the least of my problems at this precise moment. The fresh air must have worked because now I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing calling John.

“Get some sleep,” John sighs. “And for the record, nothing could be worse than you turning to the bottle again.” He hangs up, and I laugh under my breath. If only he knew.

I drag myself up and plod back to my bedroom, crawling into bed next to Ava. She’s moved from her back to her belly, her hair a beautiful mess over the pillow. I get as close as I can to her, my nose nearly touching hers. Her eyelids are flickering. She’s dreaming. I smile and stroke her flawless cheek. “What are you dreaming about, baby?” I whisper, hoping it’s me. “Tell me what you’re dreaming about.”

She murmurs something inaudible, her nose wrinkling as she turns her face into the pillow, smearing her makeup all over it before settling again. I resume tracing the contours of her face. “Don’t fight him,” she croaks, her hand coming up and taking mine, pulling it away from her face. I lean back slightly. She’s frowning. “Accept him.”

I swallow, remaining still and silent, waiting for more. Accept him. Fucking hell. Even drunk and unconscious she’s still trying to convince herself to stick around. I roll to my back and cover my face with the crook of my arm, her words bringing on a barrage of memories, each one a good enough reason all on its own for her to reject me. A reason for her to run.