Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 39

Saturday night, and my room looks like it’s been possessed by someone far fancier than me.

There’s a suit laid out on the bed...black, crisp, smug, courtesy of Layla’s insistence that I “dress to impress” for her wealthy stepdad’s charity thing. I’m standing in front of my mirror, shirtless, hair still wet from the shower, staring at the suit like it’s a trap.

At the time, saying yes had seemed like another distraction...even though Addy and I already had plans. Another way to keep my brain from circling back to places I didn’t want it going.

Now, though, with the clock ticking closer to go-time, all I feel is… nope.

My phone’s on the dresser. I glance at it for what has to be the eighth time in five minutes.

I’d posted a before-and-after of the cover-up I did a few days ago, a clean transformation, the kind that makes you forget there was ever a mistake under there.

Buried among the fire emojis and “damn, dude, you killed this” comments, there’s one that keeps catching my eye... a random truck emoji, followed by two tacos. No context. No clue who sent it. The profile’s blank, username just "j…..r"

I swallow, hard.

It’s him. Of course it’s him.

Like Jax would ever resist the chance to slip in just enough to remind me he’s still out there. Still watching. Still ignoring every boundary I tried to set.

I look at the suit again. Definitely not. I need something else tonight. Something strong. Something that burns. Something that lets me forget I’ve been walking around for days feeling like I’ve just been broken up with...except I’ve never even technically been with the person.

I grab my phone, scroll to Addy, and hit call.

She picks up on the first ring, “What’s up? You on your way?”

“About that,” I say, leaning against the dresser. “I’m not going.”

There's a short pause, then she scoffs, “You can’t just not go.”

“Sure I can.”

“You promised Layla,” she reminds me, like I’ve somehow forgotten.

“She’s got Adam. We both know she doesn't even notice anyone else when he's around. She’ll survive without me.”

“You’ve been acting really weird the last few days,” she says slowly.

“Thanks for the concern, but I'm good,” I say flatly, pulling on a T-shirt and jeans instead of the suit. “I’m going out.”

“ Out where? Don't tell me...”

“Yap.... Obsidian.”

She groans. “Ugh, You're not being fair Xan. You know how much I wanted to check that place out.”

“Then come.”

There’s another beat of silence where I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. “Do you think Layla would be okay with both of us bailing?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Nope,” she cuts me off. “If you’re skipping, I’m skipping. Layla’s got Adam to keep her warm, I'm sure she'll understand. And besides...I really, really need to get laid.”

I chuckle, I could definitely do with her company. “Meet you there,” I say, sitting on the bed and putting on my sneakers, “ It's on me tonight.”

She cheers. “Now you’re speaking my language! I’ll be there in twenty.”

The call ends, and I toss the suit back into the closet.

********

The bass from Obsidian is already in my bones before we even hit the table...low, steady, like some dark heartbeat I could sink into if I let myself. The light’s all molten amber and shadow. Bodies sway and press close on the floor, like the air’s too thick to move without touching someone. It smells like whiskey and too much cologne, like temptation and bad decisions.

Addy’s got her phone to her ear, explaining our sudden change of plans to Layla.

“....Xan insisted. He’s in a mood, like a mood mood. Said he needed something stronger than champagne." I give her an unimpressed look, she just shrugs, rolling her eyes at me when. Layla must have launched into one of her dramatic rants. She hungs up just as our first round of shots hits the table. I take mine before she even sets her phone down, let the burn claw its way down my throat until it pools low and warm. The waitress is still there, and I don’t even hesitate.

“Bring us the bottle.”

Addy lifts a brow. “Subtle. Planning to forget your own name tonight?”

“That’s the idea.” I’m already sliding her a glass before she can dig too deep. She gives me that look...the one that says she’s two breaths from asking something I'd rather she not. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.

“Drink,” I tell her. Not quite a plea. Not quite an order.

She sighs, takes it, downs it. “It’s still early, Xan. We don’t have to—”

I cut her off by grabbing my second shot, gulping it down. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Early’s fine. More hours to burn.”

Her gaze lingers on me like she’s trying to peel me open. The waitress brings the bottle and I keep my eyes on the amber instead. Tonight, I just want the edges of my thoughts to blur, to sand down the sharp places inside me until I can’t feel them anymore. I want noise loud enough to drown out his voice in my head, burn strong enough to erase the memory of his mouth.

Addy leans closer, shouting over the music. “I'm gonna assume if something was really bothering you, you'd trust me enough to tell me....so I won't push. ”

I give her a small smile and push her glass toward her again. “Drink. "

She winks, takes it. “You’re lucky I’m an enabler.”

“I know.” I knock mine back, feel it settle like a slow, dark tide. We drink like we’ve got something to prove. Like the fire in our throats is the only thing keeping us alive.

Addy’s laughing harder now, her hair sticking to her lip gloss as she leans in to shout some story I can’t fully hear over the bass. I catch half of it, laugh anyway, because it’s easier than thinking. My glass is never empty....neither is hers. Somewhere between shots, we’re pulled into the tide of the dance floor, and the world collapses to heat, light, and bass that rattles my ribs.

She throws her arms up, spinning under the strobes, before finding some guy to grind against. My blood feels like it’s buzzing, my head cotton-soft. Every sharp edge in my mind....the way his voice still curls in my ear, the weight of the way he looked at me last, starts to dissolve in the noise.

Within two hours, we’re gone. My shirt’s sticking to my back, my mouth tastes like tequila, and my head’s a warm, hazy mess. And it’s perfect.

This is the goal. This is why I came. To scrub him out of me. To flush every trace until there’s nothing left but sweat and liquor.