There was only so much Bobby could take before he gave in. It was like fucking fate. He always gave in and anyone who knew Bobby Mercer knew damn well how hard it was for him to accept defeat. But there was no going around these continual losses though they were a gain at the same time.
Bobby thrived off the burning intoxicant that was liquor. He loved how it numbed him of everything. No worrying about paying bills, taxes, his brothers, his job, his life. When he was drunk, the only thing aware to his smashed mindset was how nice it felt to let loose. For a while, Bobby was convinced that there was no fire like the fire of whiskey coating his eager throat. Boy, was he wrong.
She was an intoxicant all together, the strongest he had ever indulged in. She didn't burn his throat, she burned his soul. Just watching her was like blissful torture. Bobby hated her. Hated how it only took a perfectly manicured fingernail tracing his jawline to get him weakening. He hated how snug and right those long beautiful legs felt wrapped around his torso, as if they had been made for it. He hated how her breasts felt so warm and cushioned once pressed against his own broad chest. He hated how the sting of those fingernail tracks running down his back never really faded. He hated how her silky lush hair felt as it hung forward in his face, tickling his skin. He hated how her voice became so shrill as she egged their rhythm on only to whisper his name like a prayer. He hated her subtle powdery scent. He hated her climaxes because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look away. He hated the way she held onto him as if he were her security blanket. He hated those wicked blue eyes that bore down into soul like a clear blue sky on the verge of storming.
Bobby hated her...and yet he loved her.
He loved how she always came to him when distraught, like he'd put an end to all her troubles, which he always did. Grudgingly, of course. He loved how she looked at him with those innocent blue hues as if he had the answer to everything. He loved how her hand always found its way on his heart after another one of their heated encounters and never budged. He loved how her fingers felt as she traced each of his tattoos with a beautifully serious look of concentration on her face. He loved how her arms always linked around his neck as they kissed. He loved her weight against his strong body because regardless of his frustration, he would always support her. But perhaps most of all, he loved to watch her sleep beside him. All that hate and he'd still find himself brushing his thumb over her soft cheekbone and marveling at the beauty of the world, all seen in her peaceful face.
Bobby would never tell her he loved her. He couldn't. But he would never tell her he hated her either. If there was one thing Bobby hated to see, it was her crying. She drove him insane, sometimes he just wanted to slap some sense into her but he just couldn't take those tears. Somehow that hurt worse than any beating he may have taken in his lifetime.
Bobby reclined in his chair and eyed the brown contents of the whiskey in his shot glass, his thumb circling the rim in a timed manner. The only audible sound was the annoying tick tock of the grandfather clock. Soon enough he'd give into temptation and down the liquid, grimacing lightly at the burn in his throat.
But it never burned enough. Never enough.