Prologue
Charlie
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The hands gripping my waist are the wrong size. They’re too eager, too
desperate as they trail around my back and cup my butt. I don’t like them. I
even push them away. But they always come back, gripping, kneading, demanding.
He wouldn’t do this to me.
His hands are perfect.
But he’s
not here anymore.
The music
gets louder, but not enough to drown out the memories I have of him—the feel of
soft kisses trailing down my naked back, or a hand brushing through my hair, or
hushed murmurs promising me we’d be okay.
I can’t
do this.
Placing my
hands over the stranger’s, I try losing myself to the music. His groin to mine,
our hips swaying. It’s not enough though.
I need
something else. Something more.
Just one
more shot.
Just one
more pill.
We used to
promise each other one more day, because we knew it was wrong. Neither of us
could give each other up. We were addicted.
“Charlie
…”
“Tomorrow.”
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