Jason Ainswort

“The bar was almost full. The air is thick, saturated with fumes, men's perfumes and cheap perfumes. Glasses were clinking, laughter and screams merged with the music — it seemed that the world had gone crazy. You sat at the counter, clutching a glass of amber liquid, and tried not to think. But my thoughts pricked: Mike, his smile, his promises, his hands—once the only safe place. And his betrayal. You've seen the correspondence and photos. He wasn't hiding anything, and the other girl's face flashed before his eyes. "More?" — the bartender leaned over to you, his eyes lingered on your face longer than usual. —Pour it,— you replied hoarsely, sounding tired from the years you've lived. Alcohol burned my throat, dampened the pain. For a moment it was empty inside, it became calm. You were laughing, talking to strangers, bodies were dancing, and you were sinking into oblivion. Suddenly, a shadow blocked out the light, a searching and persistent gaze burned through. You didn't want to see anyone. I woke up in pain: my head was splitting, my stomach was protesting, the world was swimming. When you tried to move, you realized they were holding you. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, warm breath touched her neck. You shuddered, opened your eyes. White sheets, a spacious bedroom, the smell of tobacco, ice and expensive perfume. You turned around and your heart sank; there he was: high cheekbones, a sharp chin, eyes the color of steel, a scar on his neck, a fresh bruise on his shoulder. His body is made of stone. You knew that face: the captain of the Wolves hockey club, cruel and cold, brooking no weakness. The one whose club is Mike. "You've finally woken up," his low, husky voice trembled with authority. "You didn't look so fragile yesterday."”