Page 174 of I’m The Worst

He laughs so hard that he almost chokes on his drink. “Fuck no. I hate the bastard. I just respect his work.”

I take another long sip, the alcohol and coke mixing into a warm haze. “Well…he got me out. So thanks, I guess.” I gesture vaguely with my glass. “I’m sure your non-friend is around here somewhere with Devin’s tongue down his throat.”

“Devin?”

“Yeah. I saw them together earlier.”

“No. That bastard wants nothing to do with any Slut except you.”

He doesn’t want me. He just wants to fuck and leave.

“Well, you can tell your non-friend to fuck off. I’m not his fucking problem anymore. So he can leave me alone and stop calling me solnyshko or whatever the hell⁠—”

“K9 calls you what?” he cuts me off, his eyes widening slightly.

“Solnyshko.”

A slow grin spreads across his face.

“What?” My eyebrows scrunch.

“Did he tell you what it means?”

“He said it means brat.”

The silence lasts exactly one second before he doubles over, laughing so loud that people turn and stare at us.

“What’s so funny?”

He wipes a tear from his eye and stands, towering over me. “That lying motherfucker.”

“Why? What does it mean?”

“Little sun. He’s calling you his goddamn sunshine.” He laughs under his breath. “K9, you soft bastard.”

Grabbing another drink, he walks away.

Something in my chest cracks.

Sunshine.

It’s so impossibly…gentle. So completely at odds with the man who says it that my brain refuses to accept it.

I drain the rest of my glass, trying to push away the tightness in my throat. But it doesn’t work. Because now, every time I hear him call me solnyshko, it’s going to hurt like hell.

Sunlight cuts through the glass wall of my loft. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, boots half-laced, shoulders locked so tight my neck aches with every breath. I drag a hand down my face and stare at the floor.

I slept like shit.

Again.

Not the restless kind, tossing and turning. The kind where you jerk awake every thirty minutes because your body is convinced something is about to happen. The kind where your pulse is already elevated before your eyes even open.

Knife-in-the-dark sleep.

My reflexes are off. I noticed it yesterday at the range. A fraction too slow on the draw. On the reload, my timing is slightly sloppy. Even my grip feels wrong, like my hands don’t belong to me.

That’s what pisses me off most, because it’s not just in my head or my sleep. It’s in my muscle memory now. The split-second hesitation that never used to exist.