Page 43 of Just Wait

It wasn’t easy to force myself out of her room last night. There was plenty of space on the bed for me, and I’m sure she would have slept better if she was snuggled up to my chest.

I’m a cuddler.

Or I want to be with her.

I’m an affectionate person.

She triggered my instincts, and now we’re both going to have to live with the fallout.

Kincaid and Riser leave around eleven to find a local gym. Sometimes the venues have workout areas, but this one doesn’t. I’m actually relieved that they won’t be around to get on my ass.

Parish comes out a few minutes later, and I almost laugh.

I swear he was avoiding Daddy Kincaid, which I get.

Parish’s long black hair falls around his chest as he reaches into the pocket on the club chair. His hair is the longest of all of us, but it’s buzzed close to his skull on the sides. It’s a crazy effect, and it looks killer when he rocks out.

He pulls a small box from the chair pocket and drags the coffee table closer. “Wanna do a line?”

“Coke?” I ask because I don’t fuck with crystal. That shit is toxic, like straight-up chemicals. At least coke and weed come from plants.

“Yup,” he agrees.

I shrug. “Sure.”

Tennyson joins us a while later, and we shoot the shit, chilling in the living room.

My foot bounces as I check the door to Lumen’s bedroom. It feels like it’s taking forever for her to wake up, but if she doesn’t show her face in the next thirty minutes, I might pop in and check on her.

She needs rest, but it’s getting close to when Tangled Desires should be done practicing.

Not only am I anxious to see how she’s feeling this morning, I’m stressed about letting her listen to the music I’ve been working on.

Back when Drew was with us, he put out nonstop bangers. Any time I tried to help, I ended up dragging him down.

That’s what it felt like, anyway.

So, I stopped trying to contribute.

Damn, dude.

It might be time for me to get back in with my psychologist.

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria has fucked up my life on more than one occasion.

I’ve got doctor-diagnosed ADHD, and I do a lot better when I’m medicated. The meds produce the same reaction as coke, so I don’t feel guilty about self-medicating. The doc kept drug testing me every time I had to refill my prescription. I failed every time for weed, which isn’t even a big deal. His condescending comments got old, and I just never went back.

Bullshit like that is why people self-medicate in the first place. No one wants to feel like they’re on trial just for trying to gain access to the medication they need to be able to function like a normal human being.

I bend over, doing a line off the tray on the coffee table.

The residue is disgusting as I hold my nostril, sucking up whatever is left in my nasal passage. It’s bitter and tastes faintly like chemicals as it slides down the back of my throat, but I don’t hate it.

I love the way my mouth, throat, and face go numb. It’ll pump me up for about ten minutes before it levels me out enough that I can focus.

“Um, your chick is awake,” Ten whispers, slapping my chest.

My head whips up, and he’s right.