I’ve been trying to erase that part of the night. Trying and failing horribly. I have no idea what came over me, especially after how we left things that morning. I blame the coke because I’m normally not such a fucking idiot. I usually have more self-control than that.

Hell, if self-restraint was a religion, I’d be its damn figurehead.

I tap my fingers restlessly against the glass of the bottle, tracing the letters with eyes that have gone a little fuzzy at the edges. Smoke filters out of my nose, and I welcome the rush of nicotine working its way through my system.

I should have taken Mason up on his offer. Staying here to wallow is a recipe for disaster. I don’t handle being alone very well.

And if the power goes out...

A sudden banging draws me out of my thoughts. At first, I chalk it up to the wind, but when a second series of knocks ring out from outside, heavy and desperate, I make my way to the door.

The slab of wood groans and practically rips off the hinges when I release the dead-bolt. A fine mist of rain slaps me in the face and it takes me a second to process the figure dripping water at my feet.

Will’s dark blue eyes crash into mine, and for a split second, I consider whether or not I’m hallucinating. Whether or not I’ve managed to literally conjure the dude into my presence by the force with which I’ve been thinking about him.

“Thank fuck,” he pants, shoving his large body past me.

Will’s rich, heady scent of spice and leather and musk washes over me and it takes an insurmountable effort not to react. Not to chase him down with my nose like a hound.

Shutting the door and sliding the dead-bolt back in place, I give myself a moment to collect my shit before turning around.

Will pays me no notice as he twists the fabric of his t-shirt, wringing out the material into the sink behind the bar. The thin white fabric clings to his back, leaving practically nothing to the imagination. Lower, his jeans suction his ass—the denim wet and smudged with dirt.

“Are you real?”

Dear face, meet palm.

Will looks over his shoulder, an amused frown bunching his face in ways that should not be at all attractive. “Are you?”

“What are you doing here?” My voice is far too gravelly for my liking. I cut a longing look at the open bottle of Jack.

“I don’t know if you realized,” he says, slowly following my gaze, “but it’s fucking Armageddon out there.” His brow bunches into a frown and heat crawls up my neck.

“What?” I snap when he doesn’t say anything.

His eyes soften when they find mine, and I hate it. I hate him.