Page 87 of Hidden

Vienna

Now

By the time Dante and Rachel found me, I had reached the enlightened conclusion that the floor of The King’s Arms was vastly underappreciated.

Not enough people spoke about how grounding a sticky pub carpet could be. How humbling. How textured. How rich in local history.

Granted, some of that texture was probably peanut shells, and at least one part of the local history smelled suspiciously like stale lager and vomit, but I was choosing to focus on the positives. Glass half full and all that shite.

“Tell me again,” Rachel’s voice said from somewhere above me, “why he’s face down on the floor instead of sat at a table like a normal alcoholic?”

“Because he’s Vienna,” Dante replied flatly.

That seemed unfair.

I cracked one eye open and found two blurry figures looming over me. Rachel had her hands on her hips, her face split between concern and irritation, whilst Dante simply looked deadbehind the eyes, which I felt was a bit dramatic considering he wasn’t the one having his spiritual crisis on a pub carpet.

“I’m not face down,” I informed them, lifting my cheek an inch from the floor and then immediately lowering it again when the room tilted. “I’m side resting. It’s therapeutic.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dante muttered.

Rachel crouched in front of me, her expression softening despite herself. “How much have you had?”

“What a rude question,” I murmured. “A gentleman never asks, and a lady with that much Botox in her forehead should know better.”

She gasped. “I do not have Botox!”

“That’s the spirit, hair buddy,” I said, giving her a thumbs up from the floor. “Never confess.”

Dante bent down, grabbed a fistful of the back of my shirt, and hauled me upward with considerably less care than I deserved. “Up.”

“You know,” I slurred as my feet dragged beneath me, “I don’t think you’re taking my emotional fragility seriously enough.”

“No one has ever taken your emotional fragility seriously,” he snapped.

“That,” I said, trying and failing to point at him without crossing my own eyes, “is exactly the kind of cruelty that drives a man to drink.”

Rachel looped one of my arms over her shoulders, Dante grabbed the other side, and together they half carried, half dragged me through the pub. I made an honest effort to help for the first few steps, but somewhere between the jukebox and the door, I lost interest and let my feet skid along the floor instead.

Outside, the cold night air slapped me hard enough to pull a groan from my chest.

“Right,” Rachel said. “That’s good. Keep breathing. He’ll be fine.”

“I’m always fine,” I informed the pavement.

“You’re pissed as a fart and you smell like regret,” Dante replied.

“Regret is such a strong word. I prefer yearning.”

“I prefer silence,” he muttered.

The back door of the car was pulled open, and I was bundled inside with all the grace of a corpse being loaded into a van. I sprawled straight across the back seat before either of them could order me to sit up properly, one leg bent awkwardly, my head pillowed against the door, my arm dangling down toward the floor mat.

Rachel twisted around from the front passenger seat once she’d climbed in, frowning at me. “Seatbelt.”

“I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged,” Dante said, starting the engine, muttering all the while about hating driving “the cage” and how “that little fuckwit in the back” needed to get his drinking under control.