Jesse must’ve gotten news about his acquittal today—and he didn’t even tell me. Scratch that. I didn’t give him the chance to tell me. That’s what he wanted to talk about at the bar, in the bathroom, but I wasn’t hearing him in my anger.
I’m good with it, though. It’s what’s right, ultimately. Regardless of the shit that’s between us, he’s not to blame for Dar’s death. And he deserves to get his full patch. He’s earned it.
My whole being thrums to be on the road. Traveling, riding, being somewhere other than here. But I glance over to Boone, his mouth parted in sleep, his face so peacefully unaware. And I smile.
I don’t know what will happen if I see this probation thing through. If I stay in this city, stay with Boone. We might fight, but we might have some times, too. We won’t see clearly on everything. Hell, we’ll rarely see eye-to-eye on anything. But—
I don’t want to leave him. Not just yet. I want to see what might transpire if I stay. If what happened between us tonight could bloom into something real. It felt real. And for the first time in ever, I need something real.
With one last glance at Boone, I turn my attention back to my phone and pull up a text message to Tank.
Crap. Crap crap. I feel like smashed assholes.
I leap from the couch, the annoying tune I set for my wakeup call blaring from my phone. Rushing around my apartment, one leg in my jeans, I hop around my living room, trying to get dressed and make it to work on time. I’ve only been awake a total of one minute, the heavy reminder sinking past the fog in my hung-over brain that I actually have a day job.
A flipping, awake-at-the-crack-of-dawn morning job.
Coffee lovers, I loathe you.
With a startling clarity, the events of yesterday surface. The track, racing, getting wasted, getting high, Jesse…and Boone.
Boone.
I glance around the living room a
nd stare at the couch, where I somehow fell asleep right next to him. Not there. But his boots are. A thunk in the kitchen snags my attention, and my heart judders awkwardly in my chest.
Pulling my jeans over my hips, I button them and ease myself into the kitchen. I finger comb my rat’s nest, open my mouth to say a hello—and stop.
Boone’s sitting at the bar with a nearly empty bottle of Jack. A tumbler with a splash of amber liquor before him. His head buried in his palms. Fingers speared through his blond hair.
In a panic, I dredge up the memory of what I did with the last of the crank I had in the bathroom. There was just dust leftover in the baggie…but I could not handle my shit if I had anything to do with Boone getting high. After he’s been sober for… I scrunch my face, realizing I’ve never actually asked him how long he’s been off the hard stuff.
But all my thoughts cease when he lifts his head and pins me with a sloppy glare.
With a mental nod, I remember that I did stuff the baggie way in the back of the bathroom cabinet. Either he didn’t find it or he didn’t go looking, because he’s too shitfaced drunk to be anything else.
I push my hands into my back pockets and walk toward him. “So it’s liquid breakfast this morning, huh?”
He grins and releases a light chuckle. At least he’s not a mean drunk. Or maybe he hasn’t drank enough yet. His tolerance is probably zilch, but he’s a big guy. A few tumblers of Jack won’t do him in.
“It’s not exactly breakfast time,” he says.
I look toward the three windows lining my living room wall. It’s still dark outside, but it is morning. And shit, I’m going to be late for work. But I can’t up and bail on him like this. Something changed from the moment we last spoke to this morning, and it has to be pretty effin big if sobriety hero Boone Randall is getting hammered first thing in the a.m.
And damn, my head is putting a hurt on me right now. A shot of Jack, a little hair of the dog, really would help at this point.
“Where are you going?” He looks over my clothes.
“Work?”
“I thought you said you had the day off?”
My head jerks back, and I turn and dash for my phone. Oh, please be hangover brain, I plead with it. As I light the screen, I see the day: Saturday. I have this weekend off. I think…and then I’m at the calendar, checking my bloody schedule.
A sigh of relief, a quick glance back at drunk Boone, and all relief is quashed.
“Good memory,” I say. I walk over, pull out the stool beside him, and take a seat. “That would’ve been embarrassing, just showing up at work. With a mad hangover to boot.”