Fear of Falling

anything to do with me.
    I couldn’t let her believe I was that guy. The guy that got drunk and stupid whenever shit hit the fan. The guy that hooked up with any girl with a warm hole and a wet mouth. Ok, maybe I was that drunk and stupid guy. But Random Hookup Guy? That wasn’t me. Not anymore. Not since Kami.
    I don’t know how long I stood there holding that red paper heart in my hand, looking as if I had been tasered in the nuts in the middle of that crowded bar. But I knew I had royally fucked up.
    “Where did you get this?” I snapped at Corey just as he passed by to grab a bottle of vodka.
    His brows knit together, and he shrugged. “Oh, uh, I can’t be sure but I think Kami had it in her hand when she…”
    “Kami’s here?”
    “Yeah. Only for like a second though. Then she just left.”
    “When?” I asked stepping into his personal space. I was tempted to grab his collar to shake the shit out of him, cheesy soap opera style. Maybe a dramatic backhand to drive my point home.
    “Like maybe 5-10 minutes ago?”
    “And you didn’t think to tell me?” I shouted, drawing the attention of just about every bar patron. I didn’t care what they thought about my behavior. Not where Kami was concerned.
    “What the hell is going on?” Angel said, sauntering up to the bar with Dom in tow, looking like he was ready to break some skulls. Probably my skull.
    “Kami was here.” I lifted the paper heart for her to see, but I didn’t hand it over. It was mine. It was meant for me.
    “What? I didn’t see her come in,” Angel frowned.
    “Probably because she took one look at you and your table of bleach blonde cum dumpsters and left,” Dominic nearly growled, taking a step towards me. “I swear to God, if you fucking hurt her, if she shed one fucking tear over you, I will…”
    “I didn’t do shit, and you know it,” I interjected before Dom’s mouth started writing checks that his pretty boy ass couldn’t cash. Yeah, he may have been stockier but I was a good two to three inches taller and known for my quick fists. Besides, if anyone was worth fighting like hell for, it was Kami.
    Shit.
    I should’ve fought for her. I should’ve stayed and made her see that she had nothing to be afraid of. That being with me—loving me—could never hurt her.
    SHIT!
    I had hurt her. Instead of staying by her side, despite the bullshit she spewed to push me away, I got drunk and let her witness a couple of grab-happy broads damn near dry-hump my leg. I had let her down. I had proved to her that men couldn’t be trusted. That I couldn’t be trusted. I had to change her mind. I just hoped she’d hear me out long enough to let me do just that.
    I wanted to book it to the apartment as soon as we parked, but I needed to be patient long enough to get past the doorman. However, he was nowhere to be found, and a few food delivery guys were waiting to be buzzed up. That should have been a red flag. I should have sensed something wasn’t right, but I was anxious to get upstairs to Kami and plead my case. Anxious to just be in her presence again.
    An inexplicable sense of dread twisted my stomach into a giant knot as we approached their door. That should have been the second sign. That should have put me on high alert and made me barge into the apartment, figurative guns blazing. But I chalked it up to alcohol and nerves. I had to make this right. Knowing that I had a small window of opportunity had me worried as hell.
    “Well, playboy, it’s your funeral,” Angel sniggered as she placed her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll just come back after Kam is done making earrings out of your nuts. I’m sure she’ll want to go shopping for a matching handbag.”
    What happened next was beyond incomprehensible. Not because the scene in the living room was something out of a horror film. Not because there was a man perched over Kami with his dingy pants around his ankles while she lay on the ground, lifeless, in a pool of her own blood. And not because the stench of death instantly permeated our skin and clothing.
    It was because I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t describe what I did to that sick fuck that had tortured her. I couldn’t express the feeling of holding her still, limp body in my arms as I cried into her blood-matted hair, apologizing for leaving her. For not saving her.
    There was blood on my hands. Blood everywhere, saturated into the cream carpeting and blanketing the side of the leather couch. I