For a moment, there is only the sound of my ragged breathing and the metallic taste of the high on my tongue. Adriana lets out a giggle, her body sated from how rough I was. I know I’m a full grown man and could easily overpower her…but I’ll be forced into withdrawals if I don’t just give her what she wants. The majority of what I do with her is willing…sort of. I hate giving her what she wants, but I can’t imagine giving her any form of intimacy that doesn’t border on abuse.
I push myself up, my mind already beginning the slow, awful comedown. After it’s all over, she fixes her lip gloss in the reflection of the microwave and gives me a condescending pat on the cheek.
“Get some rest. Thanks, baby.” She leaves without looking back. Just like that.
I sit up slowly, my skin vibrating with leftover adrenaline and chemicals as I buckle my pants back up. I somehow make my legs work long enough to get off the bus, through the service hall, across the lobby, and into the elevator. The ride up feels like floating and sinking at the same time. Especially when the elevator lurches.Ugh, fuck.
When I finally reach the hotel suite, Micah’s on the couch, remote in hand, watching cartoons of all things. I guess it’s something bright and stupid to drown out everything else. He glances over as I stumble in. His throat bobs, but he doesn’t say anything to me. We never bother each other with that shit, because we’re both trapped. There have been times when he’dbarely make it through the hotel door after he was out with god-knows-who.
I collapse onto my bed fully clothed. The sheets are cool. The ceiling spins like a slow carousel, and it makes me fucking nauseous. Outside, the city noise seems muffled. The drugs pull at me like sinking mud. My chest aches with something I don’t have the words for. Loneliness, shame, guilt, rage…I don’t know.
This feels like the first loose thread of my unraveling. I can’t do this for much longer. I abandoned the love of my life seven years ago, and I’ve barely spoken to my parents or sister in years.
I’m trapped with these people, and the only way out feels like it’s already waiting in my bloodstream. I stare at the ceiling until the blackness takes me—but it doesn’t feel like sleep. It feels like practice.
Chapter three
JUDE GRAVES
The first thing I register is the throb behind my eyes, like someone’s pressing their thumbs into my fucking skull. My stomach growls, one warning away from vomiting. I try to breathe through it—and realize something warm is pressed against my side.
I blink and turn my head just enough to see Micah, half-buried in the blanket, one arm slung across my hips like he tethered himself to me sometime in the night.
His messy hair is smashed flat on one side, his mouth parted in a soft, exhausted snore. He always looks peaceful when hesleeps. It hits me like a punch to the gut—like seeing a broken thing before it was ever shattered. One I helped break.
I barely remember getting into bed. I never do on nights like last. But Micah being here means I wasn’t alone when it got bad.
My throat tightens.
I’m grateful that he stays with me like this. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the black spots to fade. It’s pathetic how used to this feels. The worst part is, it doesn’t even register as strange anymore.
Just...familiar.
A car horn wails somewhere below. My heart jumps, pounding too hard, and I squeeze my eyes shut until the room stops tilting. I need water. I need ten hours of sleep. I need to stop beingthis person.
Good fucking luck.
I try to carefully and slowly slide out from under Micah’s arm, but it doesn’t work.
He jerks awake, sucking in a sharp breath. His eyes are wide and unfocused for a second before recognition clicks into place. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice scratchy from sleep. “Thought you were falling off the bed again.”
“I fell off the bed?” I ask, raising an amused brow.
“Twice, man. It was annoying.”
I huff a tired laugh. “Did you pick me up and put me back?”
“Obviously.” Micah sits up, rubbing his face with both hands. “You look like shit.”
“You’re a generous friend.” I look down and notice my trembling fingers. Usual morning withdrawals.
He sighs and grabs the glass on the nightstand, pressing it into my hand. “Drink.”
I take a long sip. Room-temperature water has never tasted so damn holy. Micah is watching me with that expression he gets on a morning after a wild night. Which is, honestly, more oftenthan not. It’s almost like he’s saying,how the fuck are we even alive?
“You had a rough night,” he says softly.
“When don’t I, man?”