Page 22 of Rowdy Boy

“Doesn’t matter. Joe said leave him.”

Thatvoice I recognize. Julian harped on me for the first sixteen years of my life. He’s essentially ignored me for the last two. I’d know that voice anywhere. Like most people, I can pick out my tormentor on instinct alone.

But he’s still my brother. If Julian and Ashleigh are here, they can help me at least get out to my car. Maybe even to the house, into my bed. Fuck… I can’t wait to be in bed.

I reach out one arm, hoping someone will catch me.

No one does.

I stumble hard enough to drill my shoulder into the door of the private dining room. I wince, and maybe cuss. Or maybe it was someone else swearing. The wherewithal required to know where the words swirling around are coming from is gone. Miraculously, my hand connects with something solid so I can steady myself. I turn my cheek and let my face rest against the textured wallpaper. Maybe if I just stay here until everyone clears out…

A fist slams into the wall. It’s so close I think it actually hits me. But no, that’s just the feeling of my head rebounding against the surface and my brain bouncing around a bit in my skull.

I know who it is without opening my eyes.

“Did you have enough to drink tonight, sonny?” Joe sneers. His breath is hot on my neck. “Did you really think I wouldn’t catch your little butt buddy carrying you into my house last weekend? Consider yourself warned, Jacob. Maybe this’ll finally satisfy your perverse taste for gin.”

He knows.

He fucking knows.

How does he know?

My brain kicks into overdrive. Images of Bash and his studded belt and his barbell tongue piercing and a bottle of gin swirl around my mind. Every part of me wants every part of this to be over.

The next thing I know, someone’s leaning over me, shaking me by the arm. I groan and push to sit, but am instantly hit with the urge to vomit. The sensation is so overwhelming I almost don’t register the server standing above me. It’s a different guy from before, and this one looks at me with harrowing concern instead of apathy.

“Are you okay?” he whispers before extending a hand and pulling me to my feet.

I’m shaky, but staying upright isn’t my biggest priority right now. Finding a toilet is.

“There’s a bathroom through those doors,” he says, pointing down a narrow hallway I hadn’t noticed before. I survey the private dining room; it’s empty. Not a soul, plate, or glass remains. If my body wasn’t currently drowning in drinks I didn’t order, I could almost convince myself it had all been a nightmare.

I don’t bother thanking the server—I just focus on fighting waves of nausea until I make it to the bathroom.

Once I push into the stall, I drop to my knees and instantly let loose. My stomach grips and convulses over and over again as my body rejects the insane amount of alcohol forced on me over the last few hours.

I don’t actually know how much I drank. I stopped counting after ten. Mainly because I forgot what number came next.

I let my guts spill out for an undefined amount of time, then drape myself over the toilet for a few more minutes while my stomach spasms and I catch my breath. When I rise to my feet, I’m definitely still drunk, but at least I’m with it enough to wash my hands and rinse out my mouth.

I keep it together long enough to walk out of the restaurant and cross the nearly empty parking lot to my car. I can see the outline of a form resting against my Jeep. Awareness crackles as I try to keep my shit together.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when I get close enough to see that it’s just Rhett. Except Rhett’s mad at me, and I’m in no state to hash things out with him right now. Shit. I don’t want him to know I’m drunk. I don’t want him to think I wasn’t sober earlier when I had Tori in the car. And I definitely don’t want to explain what happened tonight.

“You’re still here,” I slur as I approach the car.

His movements are slow, measured. Or maybe my depth perception is way off.

“I’m back,” he clarifies. “I took Tori home, then figured I’d come back to make sure you were okay.”

“You getting sentimental on me, bro?”

“Nah. I just really like that shirt,” he retorts without missing a beat. We smile at each other, but the levity doesn’t last.

“Jake… why are you the last one out? I’ve been here for almost an hour. Your family left a while ago. I was about to come in there to find you…”

I look everywhere but at him. I can’t begin to unravel what happened tonight. I’m definitely drunk. Maybe in shock. And those two states of being don’t leave room for anything beyond pulling air into my lungs, pushing it back out, and just trying to make it to that next inhalation.