#Chapter2
I'd taken my coat and shoes off at the door, but it didn't do much good for the rest of me. Cold beads of water leaked from my hair, occasionally dripping down my face or sliding down my spine, and a small puddle had formed on the floor beneath the hem of my jeans.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to be at home. But fuck . . . how the fuck had tonight gone like it had?
/"You were drunk,/" Blake said softly, his expression softening. /"We all make dumb decisions when we're drunk, so if you want to put it off as a one-off, lapse in judgement, do it. It doesn't have to be anything more than that. But if you ended up in bed with another man, and were sober enough to be aware of what you were doing, then there stands a chance that maybe the smallest part of you wanted it to happen./"
I tried to find the words to disagree. To find the words to put the destructive rage into context, but nothing came out. It was hard to find a solid argument when my ass ached in ways that it never had before and my pride and dignity had slinked off into the sewers on the way here.
/"I was drunk,/" I managed at last. /"It didn't mean anything./"
Nothing at all. Not even close. And while Blake's words bugged me, knowing that he was right and I had been somewhat aware and active in the choices I had made . . . it had been nothing more than the Grey Goose taking control.
/"Okay./" Blake nodded. His hair, as dark as coal, flopped with the movement, the unruly strands springing into his face. /"I'm not judging you, Isaac, so how about you reign in the attitude?/"
It was only once he waved a hand towards me that I realised I was half out of my seat, hands balled into fists. It didn't last long. Exhaustion claimed me as its bitch, and my legs, the rubber puppets that they were, buckled. My ass hit the cushion once more. The urge to puke had to be fought back again.
/"How about you tell me again?/" Blake said. /"Slowly, this time. Calmer? I know this might feel scary, trust me, I've been there, but you know I'm here for you, Eyes./"
For a moment, we seemed to step into the past. His face was blurry, or maybe my eyes were fucked, but enough of him was distinguishable to make out his features. The high-set draw to his cheeks. The firmness to his jaw. The kindness to his smile.
For a moment, just for a split second, all the bad blood between us vanished. It became a simpler time. A happier time, back when I had his back and he had mine. Back before he'd decided sticking his dick in my younger brother was a good idea. And that reminder was all I needed for that silly illusion to shatter.
/"It was Micah's birthday,/" I said, repeating my earlier words. /"And - /" Frowning, grasping my head, I blew out a sharp breath. The order seemed muddled, dancing around too much that I was struggling to place the sequence. /"And we were all at his place./"
It had been his twentieth. He'd wanted it to be a night to remember. I couldn't remember where the booze had come from - it was too early in the night. There had been a load of us. His basement had been converted into a games room and we'd spent the early evening doing shots.
I don't remember leaving. I don't remember why I left. Maybe the booze ran out. Maybe Jordan had pissed me off again. That part was dark. The bar, however, was something I did remember. Walking home. Evening had passed. Night had come. Rain. Empty streets.
Why did I go in?
/"I went home,/" I continued, swallowing the saliva that kept building. /"No, I was going home. Pete stopped me. Pete . . . he was outside having a smoke. Called me in. Said he'd buy me a drink./"
/"Pete?/" Blake echoed. /"Charlie's older brother?/"
/"Yeah./" I nodded. Regretted it. Had to suck back three sharp breaths as agony split through the inside of my head.
/"But he wasn't who you ended up going home with?/"
No. Not Pete. Another dark spot in my memory; I had no fucking clue what happened to Pete. One minute I was talking to him, the next, I was taking a glass out of a random guy's hand.
/"No./"
/"Did you get their name? Know them? Anything like that?/"
Unfortunately, yes.
If I hadn't, I could have chalked the whole night up to an illusion. Convinced myself that none of it was real. But it had all been far too lucid. What was the word Blake had used? Aware? I'd been too aware.
And that knowledge fucking killed me.
/"Deacon Baxter./"
He chewed on that a second before his eyes widened. /"The freak? The guy's whose car we egged?/"
Grimacing, I confirmed.
Baxter ran a voodoo shop on the far side of town. Okay, well maybe it wasn't a voodoo shop. I had no idea what it was. They sold herbal remedies, good luck charms, and offered readings and other nonsense like that. It wasn't voodoo, but it still wasn't normal.
And our younger selves had found the concept even stranger. Two years ago, bored senseless and with nothing but time and childish humour to get us through the day, Blake and I, back when we'd been inseparable, had turned the guy's car into an omelette. He'd caught us in the act. Gave us one hell of an earful for our efforts.
We'd dubbed him as 'the freak' ever since.
/"Damn./" He blew out a low whistle. /"I mean, the guys handsome, I'll give you that, Isaac, but fuck. Isn't he much older than us?/"
/"Twenty six./" So much certainty went into the answer that despite not remembering asking, I was convinced it was a fact. /"Seven years isnt too bad, right?/"