Of course, the war against Balor was all I could even think clearly about. It's been running through my head ever since I first got involved in it two years ago. Balor Devlin is the baddest, most dangerous monster I've ever had the displeasure of encountering, and he somehow succeeded in getting in my head. I mean, he's only in my head because I know what he's capable of. He's capable of plenty of awful things, most of them being large-scale.
He wants to instill fear wherever he walks.
But in all of his attempts to draw out the fear that I have against him, he has failed multiple times. I'll admit it. I'll admit the fact that I am scared to death of Balor and what he's capable of doing. He's the most dangerous person I've ever come face-to-face with, but I'm not going to show my fear toward him. That would only amplify the fact that he's winning this fight.
That is definitely not going to happen! Not on my watch!
Meanwhile, Whiskey and I had finally arrived at our suite, and it surely did not disappoint. Our suite was so spacious that it could possibly fit a small family. A small, rich family, that is. All the amenities—all the items that were inside this very suite—most likely cost more than me and my twin's births combined! It seems like only rich, aristocratic assholes could afford staying here for an ungodly amount of time.
And lucky for Whiskey and I, we're able to stay here until we have to flee dastardly Balor again.
"You're sure you were able to pay for us to stay here?" I asked. "I mean, it's so huge and grand and—and wonderful."
Whiskey chuckled. "Yes, sugar. I'm absolutely sure. You wanna know how I'm absolutely sure? Well, I'm the one who put my card into the thinga-ma-bob to pay for it!"
"Thinga-ma-bob?" I questioned incredulously.
"Yeah. The thingy that reads the credit cards—that thingy—oh! Never mind!" Whiskey answered.
I laughed as I flopped onto a big sectional couch that was made out of brown leather. Surprisingly, it was very comfy. So comfy that I most likely could fall asleep on it.
"Whiskey, you gotta check this couch out! It's so comfy," I said out loud.
One of Whiskey's eyebrows arched upward. "Really?"
"You would think that leather would be kinda sticky and not very comfortable, but it is, Whiskey!" I claimed. "It's almost like sleepin' on a cloud. A white, fluffy-as-fuck cloud."
"Fluffy-as-fuck cloud? That's a new one," he said. "I'll have to keep that one in mind."
I shrugged. "Well, I told the truth, didn't I?"
"Yeah. You did—and I'm proud of you for that," he answered. "Honesty is the best policy. And I'd much rather you be honest with me than not. Then, we won't get ourselves in a bigger shithole than we're in right now."
"Glad we recognize the same thing," I said depressingly.
"Recognize what?" Whiskey asked.
I sighed. "That we're in a huge shithole."
"Well, it's the truth," he said. "We're in a big shithole. Have been for a while now, and if we don't get out soon, then we're pretty much fucked."
I nodded solemnly. "I know," I responded simply.
He gently held my face within his hands, looking deep into my eyes as per usual. "But don't you worry, Rocky. We'll get through it. We're gonna win this war."
I smiled just slightly. I had just the slightest hope that we'd win, but in this dark era where Whiskey and I are on the run, I've lost some of the hope I used to have. I guess that's the way people think. They hold out as much hope as they can in the beginning, and once the dark of the tunnel starts to collapse onto them, they think there's no hope in sight.
That's why they give up and surrender under a power greater than them.
You see, the thing about heroes is that—they always do what's right, even if the pressures of evil power are struggling to break them down and failing to make them surrender. They don't give up until there is widespread peace and order across a given region or the world, for that matter. But they keep their struggles and loss of hope concealed from those who believe in them. They have this added pressure of bringing hope to the innocent and not failing them, so they keep the struggles concealed so that the innocent don't express concern or worry over a second coming.
A second coming of untimely death and ruin.
But I don't consider myself a hero, by any means. Despite what others may think, I'm most certainly not a hero. I'm simply someone who's concerned about the safety and future of the world. I want to be able to have a safe, secure future, and I'm sure other innocent lives around the world would agree with me. That's why I feel pressured—or obligated—to team up with Whiskey and stop Balor. He's a very dangerous individual, one that is considered the Devil personified.
And if we don't stop him, then he'll bring the world to a ball of flaming ash. A real-life iteration of Hell itself.
I don't want that to happen, mainly because it's such a cruel, inhumane idea to have. How could one have such a dark thought like that one? I certainly can't fathom having such an idea, and it goes to show how twisted one can become and the consequences from such.
So in all seriousness, I'm not a hero. I'm just someone who feels the need to protect herself and those who are innocent. Heroes simply stop the villain to get a traditional storybook ending and keep saving the world as part of their way-of-life. Not me! I just want to save the world once and guarantee the safety of everyone for as long as they shall live.
"Rocky?" I heard Whiskey's voice call out. "Rocky. Earth to Rocky!"
I snapped back into reality once he called that out. "What? Oh! I'm so sorry, Whiskey. I'm so sorry."
"For what? Doing something harmless?" he questioned. "Rocky, I ain't gonna light a fire up your ass because you did somethin' completely harmless. Spacing out is harmless. Actually, I know that spacing out is a major sign of anxiety. But I ain't gonna light a fire up your ass because you did somethin' harmless."
"You ain't mad?" I asked.
"Why in the hell would I be mad at you, sugar?" he responded.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's the anxiety-riddle part of me. I'm not sure."
He patted my shoulder and smiled, showing that he accepted me for who I was, even though I may have several flaws to my name. "That's okay, sugar. I love you just the way you are."
God, Whiskey! Why do you have to be so goddamn irresistible? Just when I think I can put you out of my mind, you somehow waltz right back in. Damn you, Whiskey! But of course, I mean that in the best of terms. I love Whiskey so goddamn much, and I don't know what I'd do without him. He came into my life so unexpectedly, and I thank God every day that he did.
Without him, I'd be digging myself a deeper hole than I'm already in.
"Now, come on. Get your snow gear on," Whiskey said. "We're going skiing."
"I've never done that," I replied. "Can we also snowboard?"
Whiskey nodded. "Of course, princess."
God, he's such a sweetheart! I don't know what I'd do if he wasn't in my life. I'd tell you what. I'd probably be dead! If not for Whiskey, then I'd probably lose my mind so much that I'd wither away slowly or suddenly. Without him, I'd either become stupid enough to get myself killed or stupidly allow my demons to basically force me to kill myself. Whiskey is my life support, my rock...and without him, I wouldn't be in this world.
"Come on, sugar. Hurry up," he prodded impatiently as I waited by the door.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, pal," I said. "I gotta get my snow gear on. Sorry if I don't wanna freeze my tits off!"
Whiskey chuckled. "You know I'm just fuckin' with ya, right?"
"Yeah, I know," I answered. "I just don't wanna ruin the vibe and make things awkward."
"Sugar, don't worry about that. Even if things are awkward between us, I'm still gonna love you," he explained. "I mean, to be honest, I haven't loved anyone this much before, and if I did, it's been a long, long time."
I raised my line of sight to meet his eyes directly. "Not even your high school sweetheart?"
"At the time, I loved her very much," Whiskey responded, "but that was an era that took place a long time ago. Now, I'm learning to live in the moment and not focus on the past. And living in the moment now means loving and caring for you, just like my sweetheart would've wanted."
"She would've wanted you to care for someone else?"
"She would've wanted me to be happy," Whiskey clarified. "She would want me to live in the present as much as I can and not focus so much on the past."
He ran his finger along the side of my face as gentle as a feather. "And if she were here right now, she would've loved you."
"Really?" I asked.
He nodded. "Absolutely. She would've loved you because you made me happy. You changed me, and she would've loved you for that and so much more."
Whenever Whiskey would mention his past love, I would fight so hard not to cry out uncontrollably. Such a sweet, caring man like Whiskey deserves the world, and to lose the love of your life and your unborn child is just—just devastating. Losing anyone you were extremely close with is detrimentally upsetting.
I mean, look at my life, for Christ's sake.
I lost my twin brother when I least expected it. He and I were best friends, the typical "two peas in a pod"...we were attached at the hip. Without Devin, I was completely lost and insane, and I'm sure if he were alive today, he'd say the same thing about me. We were each other's rocks, best friends, supporters—Hell, we considered ourselves closer friends than I had in high school. Devin was the only friend I needed.
And with him gone, I—I really don't know who I am anymore.
That was, until Whiskey somehow waltzed into my life. Never in a million years would I have imagined someone like Whiskey to come into my life. I never thought of it! Maybe it was because I was too consumed in my own dark thoughts to even try to think about love. For the longest time, I grieved Devin's death. Most people would tell me to let it go and move on because it happened so long ago.
"It was just your twin brother. Move on," they'd say.
Well, I can't move on! And I don't think I ever will move past that. Devin was not just my twin brother, but he was also my best friend, my biggest supporter, and so much more than that. How the hell am I supposed to move on when the person I grew the closest to has been taken from me far too soon? It would be different if I lost an acquaintance or someone I wasn't all that close with, but this is my fucking twin brother we're talking about.
He was the closest thing I had to happiness before Whiskey came along.
And to have him taken from me is just—is just devastating. I don't plan on moving on from that ever again, but I'll promise to make the guilt and grief much easier and less painful to cope with. And how do I plan on doing that, one might ask?
By hunting down and killing the person who was behind all this.
The person who was behind Devin's murder, and the person who could've orchestrated it all—They don't deserve to live another day here on Earth because of that! They killed my twin brother, which meant that they very easily earned a one-way ticket to death's world...The darkest Hell imaginable. They deserve to live there for the rest of their Godforsaken days, and I don't care how they get there.
I just want to be the one that escorts them to Hell myself.
* * * * * *
I later decided that it wasn't worth it to just wallow in my grief's shadow any longer. I had to put my mind off of it if I were to continue fighting valorously against Balor and his dark, cruel empire that he rules with a fiery, iron fist. So in order to put my mind on something else, I went along with Whiskey to the snowy slopes to snowboard, ski, and whatever the hell else snowy adventurers do here.
Very quickly, however, Whiskey turned on a one-eighty and decided to snowboard with me, despite wanting to ski. It's terrible that he didn't have his skiing equipment.
Shame.
We stood precariously at the top of one of the biggest hills at this ski resort. No one knows exactly what it was called, but after looking at the path ahead, Whiskey and I had our own name for it.
"Diamondback Run? Really?" I questioned, my voice muffled by the tight scarf over my nose and mouth.
"Well, yeah," Whiskey said. "Judging by the slope of this thing and by warning signs we already passed, it looks like it's a black diamond run, which means it's for advanced skiers and snowboarders. But don't worry. I have faith in the two of us, given our expert coordination."
One of my eyebrows hooked upward. "You really believe that?"
"Well, sure. It's better to have enough confidence than either too much or none at all," he answered. "You have too much confidence, then you get cocky. Too little, and you're timid enough to not engage in death-defying risks. Some confidence can carry you a long way, but it has to be at a level that Goldilocks herself can deal with."
"Not too much, not too little. It has to be just right," I concluded.
He nodded. "Exactly." He adjusted his gloves so that they stayed secure on his hands. "Now, are we gonna run this or not?"
"Of course we are!" I exclaimed, allowing my snowboard to fall onto the snow below before strapping my feet to it. "Momma didn't raise no bitch!"
"I can tell," Whiskey commented.
After much bantering, Whiskey and I finally strapped ourselves to our snowboards and took off down the Diamondback Run. I was scared for only a hot minute, but once the adrenaline started to course through my veins at a high rate, I was perfectly fine. I was perfectly fine with going down a decently steep hill. It was the first time—in a long time, actually—that I finally felt free. Free to let go of my God awful past and just—live. I don't think I've ever truly lived in ages. Not since Devin's death.
I could feel the cold, bitter wind bashing itself repeatedly against my face as both Whiskey and I zipped down the slope quicker than the speed of light. It felt liberating to go down that decently steep hill and just let loose. It was like all my life's troubles sort of—detached themselves from my shoulders and disappeared temporarily without a trace. It felt very relieving, to say the least...and if I did something like that again, I certainly wouldn't complain.
Once Whiskey and I got to the bottom of the slope, we both turned to our sides so that the boards would scrape against the snow, stopping us in our tracks. I was disappointed that it all had to end, but I knew that I could—very easily—do it again. Again and again until I was exhausted.
I exclaimed with great joy at the moment the two of us stopped. "Ooo-ee! That was great!"
"You really think that risky-ass hill was a great thing to snowboard down?" Whiskey asked.
I nodded. "Fuck yeah, I do!" I detached the snowboard from my feet temporarily. "Let's try something more dangerous."
Before I could march a single inch up the slope and off to another, more dangerous one, Whiskey grabbed my wrist and yanked me back. "Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, sugar."
He yanked me back so hard that I actually fell backward, with my back and ass landing on the snow behind me. Whiskey was damn lucky that I was wearing the proper body protection, or else I would've froze my ass off.
"Damn you, Whiskey," I said through fits of laughter. "Damn you."
Whiskey shrugged as if he was proud of himself. After trying to keep his beaming, boastful manner, he eventually descended into fits of laughter as intense as mine. We were just having the best time together, provisionally forgetting about the war we were fighting. It made me feel free from all the danger that Whiskey and I were facing, even if it was only for a little bit.
* * * * * *
A couple hours passed, and Whiskey and I had already completed four runs on the most dangerous hill at the lodge. Even though it didn't have a name, Whiskey and I called it "Hell's Descent", mainly because of its steep, unpredictably dangerous nature. It has crazy twists and turns, and the steepness of it made the run even more dangerous.
Whiskey and I were right in calling it "Hell's Descent".
We were back at our lodge, warming up from a bitter day on the slopes. I was curled up on the leather couch, warming up next to the roaring fire in front of me. Whiskey, meanwhile, was warming his hands up after putting some more firewood inside. I offered to put the wood in, but my attempts had failed.
"You're a princess, sugar. You deserve to not lift a finger," Whiskey said, protesting my intentions.
Of course, I nearly melted when he called me a princess. Hell, I melt when he calls me any pet name. That's why I relented to Whiskey's command, only because he utilized my biggest weakness against me. I felt bad for not helping, but that's how I was raised. I was raised to be someone who helps any opportunity they get—to be a helping hand. So when I met Whiskey and started receiving princess treatment, it felt awkward because all my independence—all my helping nature—wasn't able to be put to good use.
I've gotten more used to it over time, but I still haven't quite made it a habit.
After he gave me my peppermint hot chocolate knowing damn well I love that shit, Whiskey decided to explore our suite for a while. Why he did this, I have no idea. But I didn't want to move, especially considering that I was already cozy and curled up on the couch. I wasn't going to move!
"Shit!" Whiskey exclaimed. "Sugar, did you know we have a hot tub in this joint?"
I looked up suddenly, careful not to spill my hot chocolate all over me. "Do we really?"
"Fuck yeah, we do!" he responded excitedly.
Being extremely cautious to not spill my drink, I shuffled my way over to the sliding doors in the kitchen, where it led to a wooden back deck. And right there I saw it—the hot tub! Goddamnit, Whiskey. You were right.
"Fuck yeah, baby! Let's go!" I exclaimed.
That's when I chugged my drink down, setting the empty cup on the counter and hurrying up toward upstairs. "Hold on a sec. I'll be right back."
"Wait a minute. Where you going?" Whiskey asked.
I glanced back at him, grinning mischievously as if I'm up to something. "I'm gonna dive in that mothafucker, so I'm getting my bikini."
"The black one?" he asked hopefully.
I nodded. "Yep." That's when I continued my way upstairs to put it on. "And no! I don't need any help this time."
I could hear Whiskey groaning in disappointment. "Damn it!" he exclaimed.
Not too long after, I came back downstairs to try and jump into the hot tub. Before I could, however, I came into the kitchen to meet up with Whiskey again. As soon as I emerged in that black bikini, his jaw dropped so much that I thought he'd have to pick it up off the floor. He was paralyzed in place, probably because of shock. The shock of seeing me in such a revealing outfit.
"Hot damn!" he exclaimed.
"I'm gonna take a guess and say you like it," I said.
His right eyebrow hooked upward. "Like it? I love it! One, black is a really good color for you. And two, it makes you look so hot!"
I smiled after getting that compliment. I don't believe I've smiled like that in a long, long time. "Really?"
"Duh, sugar! I'm so lucky to have such an amazing, hot girlfriend like you," he said. "I couldn't imagine being with anyone else."
"Aww," I said, hugging him tightly.
We only hugged for a brief amount of time before peeling ourselves off each other. I didn't want to—I wanted to be in his strong, muscular arms forever—but I had to. "Now, please get out of my way. I got a hot tub callin' my name," I remarked.
I turned to go dip into the hot tub slowly, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Whiskey leaning in the doorway. He had his hand in his back pocket, as if he had something in there. It didn't matter to me because I thought he was feeling for his phone. I didn't think much of it because I had other things on my mind other than the reason why Whiskey has his hand in his back pocket. That's inconsequential to me.
"How's the water, sugar?" he asked from afar.
I exhaled. "The water's perfectly fine, Whiskey. Wanna come in and join?"
He shook his head side-to-side. "Thanks but no thanks, sweetheart. I'm not a—hot tub kinda guy."
"Please," I begged, drawing it out for a long time. "Do it for me. Pretty please."
It took him a while to think about it, but Whiskey finally relented. How did I know that he gave in? Because he chuckled so lightly that I could barely hear the "damn you, Veronica" under his breath.
"Fine," he said. "Give me a couple minutes to change, and I'll be right out."
I had to wait for what seemed like forever before Whiskey emerged once again, but this time, he was only wearing black swim trunks. As soon as I saw him, I was immediately dumbfounded, evidenced by my jaw dropping suddenly out of shock. In all the couple years I've known Whiskey, I never once believed he could wear such a thing.
Maybe it was because I never really dreamt of it. I had bigger things on my mind other than imagining Whiskey in just swim trunks.
"Damn!" I exclaimed.
He chuckled. "And I'm gonna take a guess and say you like what you see."
"You're stupid for thinking that I like what I see," I added. "I love it, Whiskey! I absolutely love what I see."
Whiskey ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, trying so hard to hold back a very loud chuckle. He already knows that I'm unhinged as hell, and hearing me say that definitely didn't convince him that I'm sane.
"You're damn lucky that you're good-lookin' and damn smart," he said.
I shrugged. "What can I say?" I remarked. "I'm good at getting people to tolerate my crazy ass."
"Sugar, I can tolerate a lot of shit. Dealing with your crazy ass is nothin' to me," he said. "If I can be with it for the rest of my life, then I certainly wouldn't complain one bit."
I bit my bottom lip decently hard to keep myself from smiling such a huge, goofy grin. But hearing Whiskey's comment sparked a new pair of set thoughts in my mind, and they were extremely conflicting.
Goddamnit, Whiskey, I first thought. What the hell did I do to deserve you?
See? So innocent, right? I innocently don't know what I truly did to deserve having Whiskey as a boyfriend. Before I met him, all I did was go through the motions of life, which became significantly harder after poor Devin's sudden death. Meanwhile, Whiskey was probably living his best life, fighting international threats and traveling all over God's green Earth.
But my second thought was considered more of suspicious pondering than anything. All the possibilities of what Whiskey could be up to ran through my head.
What's going on? What does Whiskey have up his sleeve? What's he hiding? Why is he acting like he is hiding something?
Maybe I'm simply losing my mind. I've been doing that since this gruesome war with Balor started. Sure, he's gotten into my head and made me afraid of him, but I'm not gonna let that show. That'll only make him more powerful and have him gain more of an advantage over us. I have to stay strong in order to eventually win this war. If I don't, then Whiskey, myself, and the rest of the world are fucked.
Completely downright fucked.
So Whiskey relented and ended up joining me in the hot tub, slowly dipping in as he tested the temperature of the water. As he might've already figured out, it was hot. Decently hot. Mind you, I'm considerably tolerant of scalding hot water, since I typically take hot showers every couple days, so I'm comfortable with burning hot water. I don't know about Whiskey, however. He may have interacted with it long before he met me, but he may not prefer it like I do.
And that's fine.
"It's a little hot, don't you think, sugar?" he said as he finally got into the hot tub, the water submerging his body all the way up to his upper torso.
"Ah," I commented. "It's fine."
His eyes widened. "Fine? Sugar, this is blistering hot!" He reached over to grab my hand and examine it. "Are you sure that you ain't burning up?"
I smirked. "Whiskey, I'm fine. I'm used to hot water. This—this is nothing."
I guess Whiskey was satisfied with that because he didn't give me any more fight. "If you say so, sugar," he said.
For a while, we decompressed in the hot tub, allowing our tense muscles to relax. It's something we haven't done in a long, long time. Ever since we started the war against Balor, we've been running around like headless chickens, and we've never had the time to truly relax. Sure, this war has always been in the back of our minds, but right now—right now is a rare occurrence. A rare occurrence where we could finally relax and temporarily forget about the stress we're under.
"Whiskey, I gotta ask you somethin' serious," I spoke up.
His head slowly turned to me, while his eyes softened with concern. "Yeah. What's goin' on?"
I sighed. "Do you ever get tired of me? Do you ever get tired of seeing my face?"
"Why in the hell would you ask me that?" he asked incredulously.
"I mean, we've been attached at the hip since—since we started going on the run from Balor," I added, "and I just think that you get bored of seeing my face every single day."
He briefly shook his head before setting his sights on me again. "But why, sugar?" he asked. "Why would you ask me that sorta question?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. It's always been in the back of my mind, ya know? I thought about our relationship and wondered about different scenarios if they played out differently than they did now. What if you get bored of my face? What if you leave me?"
He reached over and placed his hand on the side of my face, feeling the strong jawline that I inherited from, most likely, my father. His eyes softened and sincere, Whiskey didn't even flinch when he gazed into my eyes and deep into my soul.
"I am never going to get tired of that face," he stated firmly. "This face—it brings me comfort. It helps me a great deal to forget about all the darkness and pain I struggle against. And I thank you for that. I love you so goddamn much, Veronica, and if I had the chance to spend the rest of my life with you, I would."
"Oh, really?" I asked genuinely.
He smirked mischievously as he grasped the back of my neck tightly, pulling me forcefully and aggressively into him for a passionate, vigorous kiss. One of his hands entangled itself into my hair, grasping it tightly and pulling on it. His other hand, meanwhile, was gently on my waist, running up and down my side and back.
I was left breathless as a moan escaped my breath and landed on his lips. It wasn't the first time where such a thing happened with me and Whiskey, but it definitely caught me off-guard. It always does.
This encounter between Whiskey and I lasted a decent while. We only broke apart once the air in our lungs was completely non-existent.
"Yes, really," Whiskey whispered in a low tone.
And from that moment on, I knew that Whiskey was cooking up something. Maybe a mastermind plan that I had no idea about. But the big question is: When does he plan to enact this plan? Does he plan on carrying it out now or later?
Deep down inside, I hoped that I'd spend the rest of my life with this man. He's the picture-perfect gentleman that God sent my way. He's everything I wanted and more in a man, and I thank God everyday that Whiskey came into my life in the way that he did...
...and I hope that Whiskey—the darling man that I perfectly imagined—stays in my life as long as I live.