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Technically, I'm not supposed to drink on probation, but who the fuck cares? It’s just one more thing to add to my long list of failures.
With each passing day, the list grows, and I'm tired of trying to do better. I'm tired of trying to survive.
I take another swallow and welcome the heat, craving the numbness it'll bring me.
With any luck, everything will dull enough that I can pretend—just for tonight—that being me doesn't hurt anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Christian
Logan sent the texts right as Tay and I were loading up our bikes.
Devon's upset.
Don’t bite his head off.
He’s drunk.
I stared at the screen for a solid minute before shoving the phone into my pocket. I’d rather crash my piece of shit bike at full speed than deal with that asshole drunk, but here we are.
The apartment’s quiet when I walk in, which means Logan’s probably asleep. I kick off my boots and head straight for my room, secretly pleased to find that Devon's still in there, though I'll never admit it out loud.
When I go to twist the handle, though, I find it locked.
“Fucking dick,” I mutter, turning toward the kitchen to dig a paperclip out of the junk drawer. It takes me two seconds to pick the lock—far from the first time I’ve done it. When we first moved in, this shitty door used to lock itself constantly if you closed it too hard.
Devon’s still in my bed when I get in, flat on his stomach as he stares at the vodka bottle on the nightstand. Dying to Love by Bad Omens echoes softly from his phone speaker. The red glow from The Ex Wife's lamp illuminates his bare back.
“Dev.”
No answer.
Shutting the door, I lean against it and shove my hands into my pockets. “Logan told me you were upset and drunk.”
He just sighs heavily. “I'm not drunk. Only had a few sips. Somehow stopped myself from chugging the whole thing.”
“But you're upset?” I move closer and pick up the bottle, but not before his hand snaps out to grab my wrist.
“Give it back.”
“Nah.”
His blazing gaze darts to mine. “It’s all I’ve got.”
For some reason, that pisses me the fuck off. “You've got me,” I growl without thinking. When his eyes narrow, an odd heat crawls up my neck. “I just mean you’re not alone. Stop acting like you are.”
His throat works around a swallow as he collapses back onto my pillow. “Feels like I am.”
All I can do is stand there and stare at him for a few seconds, unsure of how to respond. Part of me wants to shake him and tell him to stop being a baby-back bitch, but I don't think The Taylor Method will work here.
When my best friend was going through shit like this, I had to give him some tough love. We got into so many fist fights those days after his dad died and Huck left, but it was never out of anger or hate. He just needed someone to take it out on, and I was more than happy to spar with him.
Something tells me Devon is different. He doesn't need the sense knocked back into him, he needs… another approach. A kinder one. Like my siblings when they were younger and annoying as fuck, but I held them close just to stop the crying. Not sure if I can do that for Dev, but I guess I could try, if only to get the cocky asshole from last year back.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I pull a leg up and rest my elbow on my knee. “Why are you upset, Dev?”
“Why are you here, Chris?”
