Firstly, I would like to take a moment to say a big thank you to the lovely kellyanneblount for not only featuring me in the Block Party, but for also allowing me to work with her and other big Wattpad names on the Snow anthology, which will be published soon. It's been months and months behind the scenes with an incredible amount of work that's gone into this brilliant collection from everyone involved. I know you're all just going to love it. I've read nearly every story five times now. So thank you to my editing group for allowing me to work with you (and sometimes torture you). You wouldn't believe how hard these people work. You are all a dream come true.

Secondly, my contribution to Snow would not have been possible without the help and edits from missywillman and lucyface. I thank you both so much for your support in shredding, rebuilding and making my story a reality. You ladies are amazing, and I would be lost without you.

And lastly, to my loving, patient and completely understanding family. The work I've been doing has had the potential to drive us all crazy, but I have good people at home who look after me, make sure I eat, and indulge my insane perfectionism. I couldn't do this without you.

The following is a sample from my story Sober, which will be available for purchase online in March along with other fantastic stories. The first part has already been published on my profile, but this is the continuation of the sample (and it is the clean version minus the swear words for the Block Party—you all know me).

I hope you all enjoy!

SOBER

CHAPTER ONE

A memory has manifested in front of me and I can't quite believe it.

I'm asking myself what he's doing here—here in the bar where I work. It isn't a coincidence. It can't be.

The edges of my mind blur into numbness. It becomes an effort to keep standing.

My head tears itself apart, spinning in a thousand directions: run, bolt, sprint—hide. Hide, hide, hide.

Years. It's been years since I saw him. Jet-black hair with dark eyes that know everything, he still looks the same. His tanned skin is out of place against the white snow outside. I wonder where he's come from, what places he traveled to since we called it off.

No. I don't care about those things. Not anymore.

His eyes meet mine, and I resist the urge to step back. He walks to me—prowls to me—and I have no saliva left to swallow as he takes a seat. The bar doesn't put enough space between us. My hands begin to tingle as if my blood supply is cutting off. I feel it building in my throat—the emotion, the words. It's stupid and we're in public, but I'm about to choke on my own, uncontrollable childishness.

I need to hold myself together—but what is he doing here?

"Danielle," he purrs, his voice crawling under my skin.

It kills me to force a smile. "Mr. Hirano, it's ... been a long time."

His mouth tilts into a smirk. "It has."

The sounds of the bar fill what lies unspoken between us; the crash of balls on the billiard table, the clink of glasses, the scrape of stools against the wooden flooring, the chatter of patrons oblivious to my personal firestorm.

I lower my eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I just came back from Japan."

In the polished timber bar, my murky reflection watches back at me. "And you came here?"

"I have business here."

My gaze slides to his. "In Colorado?"

Amusement colors his dark eyes. "In Colorado."

"What business is that?"

His low laugh smooths along my bones. "Did you miss me, Danielle?"

"No," I say, my voice soft. Not a lie—I think. "Why would I miss you?"

He lifts a brow. "Your email said otherwise."

Email—what email?

My breath thins until it stops. I remember now. The one I sent five months, three weeks and three days ago when I was bad. Really bad. In a cascade of typos and fragmented sentences, commas thrown around like confetti, I told him everything—the state I moved to, the town I now live in, all the shitty things I'd been doing with my life. I woke up the next afternoon and cringed when I found it in my Sent box. I deleted it and pretended it never existed.

Clearly it did, and he received it. Now he's here to torture me.

My skin begins to heat. It's too much to be here, standing before him like this. I must look so weak and vulnerable. And he's teasing me—no, it's more than that, worse than that. He's mocking me, as if I haven't been through enough already.

"Leave," I say.

He leans over the bar. I feel his breath warm my neck, our faces too close. "I missed you."

His voice caresses something inside me, something old and wounded, but my heart screams Liar. I'm nothing to him. Amusement at best. It's been years. He let it go—let me go but now he's here. I damn well want to scream.

"You have other women," I say. "Plenty of women."

"I want you."

I want you.

He says the words easily, as though they didn't pull the threads of my already poorly-stitched heart.

I want you. Like I'm an item in a store window. Get me gift wrapped to go because I'm going home with him! That's what he expects. That's what the bastard always expects from me.

I'm so sick of feeling this way.

"Go to hell," I say, but it doesn't come out with the bite I intended. It sounds stupid and weak. There's no conviction in it whatsoever. It makes him laugh. It makes me want to die.

"I miss you," he says. It sounds like a tease.

I want to scream, but all I can say is, "Please go," and my voice is even more pathetic than before.

He leans against the dip between my neck and my ear. "I like it when you say please. I like it when you beg." I turn my head away. The tip of his nose slides along my skin, pulling me into places I don't want to be. "What perfume is that?"

I say nothing, but I can smell him too. It's that same old cologne; so crisp, so clean. I am certain he wore it on purpose. He knows I like it. It was my favorite on him.

He places something between us. "That's where I'm staying—or more correctly, where I'm living."

Panic cracks my brain like a gunshot. "Living?"

"A cabin on the outskirts of town."

I shake my head. I don't believe him. "No."

"I bought it."

"Bought it—why?"

"So I can be close to you."

God, it's all a game to him. I thought I'd left, that we were done but—

"I'll be waiting," he says, low and seductive, and then he leaves. I stand there clutching a glass, the markings pressing into my palm.

A hand takes hold of my shoulder and startles me. "You all right, Danny?"

I spin around, calming myself when I look up into Tanner's brown eyes. In this light, I can see the copper color shining in them.

"I'm fine," I say, but I'm not. I'm shaking.

"Customer getting a little too close?"

Another forced smile. "Something like that."

Someone calls for service, and Tanner taps my shoulder. "I'll get that—but you and I will talk later, okay?"

I nod and smile. He leaves, but we won't talk later. We won't talk at all because I'm going. Right now.

I pick up my coat, put it on, and rummage the pockets for my gloves. I've got to get out of here before Tanner turns around and sees me leaving. I don't allow myself to breathe as I make my way to the exit. I can't be here. Not now.

Not with all the bottles behind me.

CHAPTER TWO

I tell myself I'll be all right. Just breathe. Give myself time to think.

I don't need anything but the fresh winter air and the sound of snow crunching beneath my boots as I walk home. I won't stop by a store. I don't need a drink.

I don't.

Somewhere along the way, I stop telling myself those things. No longer can I hear the voice inside my head saying I'm fine—it's fine—you're fine—we're fine.

Everything becomes silent.

I'm sitting on my sofa, staring at nothing. Cars pass by. I hear them and see them from my window, but I don't notice as one pulls up to my driveway. I don't see who gets out. I don't know they're here until they knock on the door. I stay rooted in my seat, frozen, too terrified to move.

I don't want it to be him.

The person begins to pound. They call my name—Danny.

I frown. He never calls me Danny. That means I'm safe.

I open the door. "Yes?"

Tanner's brown eyes widen. "You're okay. Christ—you scared me." I step back and invite him in. He enters and turns to face me. "What happened to you? You left in the middle of your shift. You weren't picking up your phone."

I hug my elbows. "I'm sorry. I just needed to go."

"Was it that guy?" he asks. "Do you know him—did he say something?"

Yes. "No," I lie. "It's not him."

"So you know him?"

My energy depletes. I'm no longer bothered to lie about it. "I do—or I did. Not anymore."

He lifts a brow.

I pass him, sit on my sofa, and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. "I'm sorry I left work."

Tanner lowers next to me and takes off his gloves. "Is he an old boyfriend?"

I laugh. "Something like that."

"He seems ..."

"He is," I say, saving him the trouble of having to point it out. "He's older than me. Much older than me."

I can almost hear his thoughts as they scatter. He must be thinking the worst of me. Bitch. Whore. I've heard it all before. Unimaginative names all hurled at me, dust thrown like stones. It nearly makes me laugh when I think about how much they used to hurt me. It traumatized me in high school, but these days it's just ... funny to think about.

"Did he upset you?" Tanner asks.

I feel an ugly smirk twist my face. No nasty names? No insults? He wants to say them, surely. Everyone does—or did. But no one knows me in this town. That's why I moved here. Fresh start, clean slate—all that bullshit. But now that he knows, he will want to probe and learn all the sordid details. They always do.

"No, he didn't upset me," I say.

He shifts next to me. He's bursting to say something, I can feel it. Oh, Tanner—just say it. I'm not the girl you thought I was. I screw with men old enough to be my father. And I enjoy it. I'm not the shy, quiet person I made myself out to be. I'm a slut and can't escape it. It follows me everywhere.

"But you left," he says. "You were gone so quick, and I—"

"It's the alcohol," I say, making sure to keep my eyes on the wall ahead. "I wanted to drink, so I left."

A car horn sounds in the distance.

"Do you have a problem with drinking?" he asks.

My knee begins to bounce. "Yes."

He's quiet for a while, but then he says, "Can I ask how old you are?"

I smirk. "You may. Twenty-five and an AA-certified alcoholic. Pitiful, I know."

"I wasn't thinking—"

"What were you thinking?" I ask, turning to face him.

His eyes search my face. "I'm just wondering why you work in a bar. Isn't it hard?"

I look away. An innocent enough question. I ignore the pocket of vulnerability that opens inside me and answer it. "Surprisingly not. The last three months haven't been so bad. I see it, I smell it, but I don't think about it. It's everywhere and I don't have a problem. But tonight ... tonight was different. It just came on suddenly. I had to go."

"How long have you been sober?"

"Five months, three weeks and two days," I say. I don't have to think about it. I know it down to the second. It's timestamped on that email.

"And?"

I draw back. "And what?"

He rests his elbows on his knees. "Did you have anything to drink tonight?"

The question hits me hard like a blow to my entire body. It makes me stop. I should be angry that he asked something so personal, absolutely furious, but I'm not. I'm ... I'm relieved that he asked—that someone asked—happy, even. It surprises me to feel this way because I wanted to drink—I still want to, but ... "No."

Thank you all for reading Sober!

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