𝑉𝐼𝐵𝑅𝛢𝑁𝑇 - B.D.

Another Shot. Another Bottle.

//Lexi//
I slump down at the end of the bar with a sigh, I'm not quite sure where I am. I'm pretty sure that, wherever it is, it has to be the dirtiest bar in Seattle. That's great, that's just what I needed.

Whatever, at least Blaine wouldn't be seen dead here, or deader here, I guess.

I get a lot of odd looks as I'm sat here, downing my third shot of rum when I come to the realisation that, along with being the dirtiest bar in Seattle it's probably one of the least zombie friendly.

Whatever, at least Blaine wouldn't show up here unless he had a death wish, or a deader wish, I guess.

Blaine. Fuck. Why did he have to? Why him? Why couldn't I have fallen in love with someone sweet and romantic and without murderous tendencies? Okay, let's be real, he's got the sweet and romantic part perfected. He always put in so much effort. I wonder now how much of that is real, if he ever loved me, if love is something he's even capable of.

I loved him, love him, with all my heart.

Another shot. That's four.

He pushed me away, can you believe that? Made me walk out the door, made me leave, made me feel guilty.

He's the bad guy, yet I'm the one feeling guilty, drowning my sorrows in rum and cheap bottled beer because apparently, this bar doesn't sell much else.

I'll admit, looking at this place, at the tables with wonky legs and the splintered chairs I find a new appreciation for the work and time Blaine put into The Scratching Post. This bar really does pale in comparison. It makes sense though, doesn't it? That Blaine would put so much effort into something that pays so well. It's all just currency.

Another bottle. That's two.

And what was I? Seduce the pretty girl at the bar and get her to work for you? Attract more male customers back to the bar? Surely not, he practically growled when other men looked at me.

So a way the get under Peyton's skin then? Or even Liv's, they have some kind of war going on. But then why put in so much effort behind closed doors, when they weren't around? Why let me sleep in his office before knowing who I am? Did he have it all mapped out that night ready for me?

Another shot. Five. Another bottle. Three.

What if he really loved me? What if he really cared? He didn't fight back when my dad attacked him. He did that for me- or for his image.

No, he did that for me, he loves me. He has to. He didn't have to meet my parents at all. He didn't have to put up with Tracey. He didn't have to put up with my drunk ass that first night.

So why should I care if he's a murderer? He hasn't killed anyone recently, right? He hasn't tried to kill me, or anyone else I care about. He's trying to get better, he's doing it for me.

Jesus, I need to stop drinking, how can I justify murder like that? They were kids, just fucking kids, and God know's who else. 

But still, he loves me. He cares. Everyone deserves a second chance, right? He even feels bad, sometimes- that's still better than nothing. That's a sign that he feels, maybe, that he really is capable of love. Of loving me.

He's just telling you what you want to hear.

Shit.

Another shot. Six.

Another bottle- wait, what? There's a bottle being slid across the bar, landing directly in front of me and I frown, looking up, I hadn't finished my third.

Four.

"It's from that guy." The bartender gestures by throwing his thumb over his shoulder and I turn to look. There's a man sat at the other end of the bar.

He's facing toward me, a grim smile I think is meant to be charming on his face, the lights of the bar are too bright, making his face look far too pale, making his dark hair seem grey and mottled.  I roll my eyes, not bothering with a thank you, not bothering with a smile as I take a sip from the bottle and I must be drunk because everything is starting to taste a little bitter on my tongue. I think for a minute that maybe I should go over there, flirt a little, maybe it'll make me feel better, take my mind off of Blaine.

I don't bother, I don't need to.

The guy comes over, maybe five minutes later, and takes the seat next to me. He talks bout how he thought I was pretty and couldn't resist coming over when I saw me across the bar. I almost bark out the usual "that's sweet, but I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend," when I realised I kind of don't anymore. Sure, he didn't say we were breaking up directly, but it was clear in the subject, so when he offers to buy me another drink, I let him with a polite smile. That's five.

He talks, and talks, and talks for what feels like hours before I realise how dizzy I feel. I think my head is spinning and I'm only vaguely aware that my legs feel like jelly as I try to stand. As I should've expected, my legs give out from under me and the guy catches me under my arms to pull me back up.

"Ya' okay there sweetheart?" Don't- please don't ca- call me that.

"Yeah, jus- just a litt- a bit drunk."

He snorts, "I can see that- here, let me drive you home."

It's then, as he's pulling his keys out of his front pocket I realise I hadn't seen him take a single sip from his drink all night.

It's then, as I feel all my weight shifting onto him and my mind clouding up that I definitely haven't told him my address, but I can't open my mouth far enough to speak.