Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 5

I sit up now and look around my empty bedroom. I'm so hungover I can't see straight, but my mind is clear, flickering with thoughts of Quinn, where she is, what she's doing, and who she's doing it with. I think of her lying in bed in one of my Bruisers t-shirts and panties. I remember the way it felt holding her in my arms. Then my mind flashes to her doing that with some brainy grad student guy. I imagine the reaction to her warm, inviting, tempting beauty all over the Harvard campus.

My chest starts to tighten more. My pulse hammers and my mouth craves another drink. I stagger over to the dresser on my far right and grab the half-drunk bottle of whiskey from the night before. I slam it back, feeling it burn and singe my throat, hoping it numbs the pain of what I've lost.

I wipe my mouth and glance down at my phone on the dresser. I click open my screen, desperately hoping for a missed call or text from Quinn. There's nothing but an empty message box.

Curiosity bites me in the ass, and before I can stop myself, I type her name on Facebook, stalking her like a fucking sorority girl with nothing better to do.

I haven't looked her up in weeks. I deleted her from social media, mainly because my heart imploded at the sight of her profile picture the last time. She was wearing a Harvard sweater, arms in the air in celebration with a huge ass smile on her face as she stood in front of a campus building. Seeing her so happy without me by her side hurt harder than someone taking a hockey stick and slashing it into my balls. I had to accept that she'd moved on. She didn't care about me anymore. And, after what I hid from her, why would she?

I click to open her Instagram page and scroll down as images of Quinn consume me. She looks back at me with those big green eyes, plump pink lips, and curvy body that taunts me, telling me I'll never taste, touch or feel her again. I scroll through her photos. Quinn is holding a yoga pose...Quinn with Lyndsey at Starbucks...Quinn is drinking tea with her glasses on. In each picture, she looks sexier than in the last. Just one look at her makes my heart ache. I scrolled her timeline and spotted a recent picture tagged with Aiden Harrington. My body tenses as I realize the arms around her belong to him.

What. The. Fuck?

My heart hammers in my chest. Quivers of fury streak down my spine. Bile rises and chokes my throat at the sight of that little fucker Aiden with his arms wrapped around her. Both of them are smiling from ear to ear. Quinn looks stunning, the flicker of a bonfire behind her. Aiden is holding a beer. Quinn, of course, doesn't have a drink in her hand. I glare at the photo, becoming acutely aware of his intentions with her.

I get angrier by the second. I shake with lust, rage, and jealousy, and my brain starts swimming with unwanted thoughts of him with her.

Touching her.

Holding her.

Fucking her.

I drop my phone, grab the whiskey bottle and slam what's left.

How could I let this happen?

My bedroom spins around me, and I clench my chest, fighting to breathe. I rifle through the top drawer of my dresser, searching for another bottle. I need to numb the pain. Once my fingers discover a bottle of rum, I crack open the lid without a second thought and slam back as much as I can before I sputter and cough. I toss the bottle aside, stumble backward, letting my knees hit the edge of the bed, and collapse.

"Fuuuuuuucccccckkkkk!" I scream into my empty room.

I force away the image of Quinn with him as my mind races.

You're a scumbag, Brooks. And you never deserved a girl like Quinn. You are a toxic mess. You don't deserve happiness. You deserve the hell you've created for yourself. She was right to walk away from you.