Page 7 of Rowdy Boy

I haven’t slept well in months, but tonight I’m so fucking tired. Suddenly, I have the urge to sleep. No, not an urge; a burning desire. I couldn’t keep my eyes open if I tried. It’s like my brain’s grown weary from being on high alert for so long. Or maybe it’s finally accepted the truth: It doesn’t matter if my eyes are wide open or glued shut. My monster hunts around the clock.

Someone calls my name, but I’m not scared. It’s not Joe. It’s not him. I’m not in danger.

The staccato rhythm ticks like a metronome:

Jake.

Jake.

Jake.

It’s a lullaby that crescendos into a chant and sings directly to my darkness, lulling me to sleep.

“Jake, please. Jake. Jake. Jake, please. Jake.”

Chapter 4

Myeyesflyopenin a panic, bile burning my throat. I will myself to keep calm. I can’t throw up right now. I don’t even know where I am.

I freeze as I scan my surroundings. My body senses the familiarity of the room before my brain makes sense of my location.

I’m lying in my bed, in my room, at my house. Another wave of vomit threatens to surge, but I push it down by sheer stubbornness. I refuse to barf in my bed.

How did I get here? What time is it? The last thing I remember is stretching out on the train tracks on the bridge…

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My tongue catches on the roof of my mouth when I try to swallow. I need a glass of water. Or a trash can to throw up in. I sit up slowly, using my arms to hoist my body to the edge of the mattress. Engaging my core might be what sends my hungover ass over the edge. I can do this. I stretch out my legs, ready to haul myself up, but the sight in front of me brings me to a halt. My legs are filthy, caked with grease and dirt. My whole body hurts. I feel grimy as hell.

My head is swimming as I rise up and make my way to the bathroom. I peek into Joey’s bedroom—the bathroom connects his room to mine—and let out a sigh of relief when I find the room empty and his bed made. I close and lock both bathroom doors, just in case, before turning on the shower and searching my pockets for my phone.

I flip open the device and do a double take. It’s already one. I have to be at work in less than an hour.

I hit the number one to ring Rhett on speed dial. He doesn’t answer until the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, bro,” I barely manage to grunt thanks to my cotton mouth. “Do you work today?”

“Yep—we’re both on at two. Why?”

“Can you pick me up? I think I need a ride…”

“What do you mean youthinkyou need a ride?”

I don’t know how to explain it because I’m not even sure it’s true. But I highly doubt I drove myself home last night. And I’m pretty damn sure I’m still drunk. I’ll be okay to run the dishwasher, especially if Rhett’s working, too. But I’m definitely not fit to drive.

“Rough night,” I offer, leaving it at that. “Can you pick me up or not?”

“Yeah, okay. Tori’s working too. Be ready in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be outside waiting.” I don’t want either of them coming to the door. Not on a Sunday when he’s home. Not when I have no idea how the next twenty minutes are going to play out.

I end the call, surprised my battery isn’t dead yet, and check my notifications—an unread text message and three missed calls, all from Bash.

I don’t bother calling him back—I doubt my phone has enough juice left to make that call—but I do scroll to the little envelope icon to read his text.

Unknown: Last night was fucked, man. I think I got you in the right room. Just let me know you’re okay when you see this.