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Chapter Thirty-Six
RORY
The serial killer documentary I’m watching has me wide-eyed and entranced. I’m in some fluffy loose pajamas, which I found hidden at the bottom of a drawer, with a blanket over me as we lounge on the couch with snacks. Mischief is lying on me, snoring as I munch on popcorn. I haven’t seen any of the Dixen brothers today, not since Rogan dropped me at my door with a kiss only a few hours ago.
Fucking Rogan…
I still ache between my legs, reminding me of how he took me. The sex was phenomenal, just incredible, and I already want to do it again, but the lines are blurring, so I have taken the rest of today for myself to relax. Self-care, bitch, then at work, I’ll be ready to keep my distance…until I want their dicks at least. I still have a job to do, and it’s to gather evidence. I’m not supposed to get lost in their sultry gazes, six-packs, and dominating personalities. I’ve just popped another kernel in my mouth when a gun goes off on the TV, but at the same time, a hammering knock comes at my door, making me jump because I was so lost in the show.
Frowning, I turn and look at the door. The lights are on low to set the ambience, so the apartment is almost pitch black. The knock comes again, but it doesn’t stop this time. It’s more insistent, hard, almost shaking the door. What the fuck?
Fear fills me before I remember this is the Dixens’ building and they know everything that happens. Mischief finally wakes up, flipping over and starting to bark as he runs at the door. Groaning, I pause the show, swallow the bite, and throw off my blanket. Annoyed, I slip off the couch and pad to the door on fuzzy, sock-clad feet. Mischief is sniffing under the door, wagging his stump of a tail, letting me know he likes whoever is on the other side.
Pushing him out of the way, I press my hands to the wood and lift onto my toes, peeking through the spy hole to see Alistair there. Sighing, I lean back just as he’s about to knock again and rip open the door, my arms crossed.
“What?” I snap unkindly before my brow furrows as I look him over. He stinks of alcohol, and there is some powder residue on his nose and lips. His eyes are blown and darting around, and his body moves jerkily. His shirt is torn and open, his pants are covered in food stains, and his hair a mess, almost greasy. It’s the most unkempt I have ever seen him and doesn’t match the usually charming, slick Dixen brother. “Are you okay?” I ask before he begins to back me into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him as those eyes run down my body.
“Let’s fuck,” he slurs, offering me a sloppy grin I think is supposed to be sexy.
“Dude, are you high?” I almost yell, turning away with a disgusted look and storming over to the couch to grab my phone to call Rogan to come get him. But a moment later, I feel breath waft over my neck, and then forceful hands land on my ass and back, sending me tumbling to the sofa. I flip over, but he’s on me. His hands trap mine, and he pins my body with his large frame. His eyes twitch as he goes to kiss me, but his breath stinks of booze, and I turn my head away as he licks down my neck.
“Alistair,” I snap, “you’re messed up, go sleep it off.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this. It reminds me of Mitch-bitch, of the nights when he would come home so messed up, he couldn’t even undress. He would pass out in the middle of a task, piss on the floor thinking it was the toilet, or vomit and almost choke on it in his sleep if it wasn’t for me. Annoyance and sadness runs through me. Is this really what Alistair has come to? Reminding me of my druggie brother? I refuse to look after another addict, I’ve had enough of that. Just because he has money doesn’t mean he should abuse it and get himself in such a state.
He grinds into me before sitting back and looking down at his jean covered cock as if he’s in shock, and I realize he can’t even get a boner. That’s how messed up he is. He seems confused as he stares down at himself before he starts to laugh and lean back, but he ends up falling from the sofa to the floor. Sighing, I sit up, pushing back my hair as I watch him try to get to his feet before just flopping there and starting to… Yep, he’s making a snow angel on the floor.
“Get up,” I order. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“We have a bet… Fuck me!” he yells. “Come on, Roar, fuck me, you know you want to.”
I narrow my eyes, my annoyance only growing. That’s what this is? A bet? He’s doing this to show off and compete with his brothers, not because he actually wants to? I want to punch him in his stupid face, but I don’t. Instead, I get to my feet and glare down at him. “You need to sleep this off,” I suggest, trying to stay calm.
“No, we need to fuck.” He reaches to grab me before his hands fall back to his chest with a thump, and he giggles.
Leaning down, I grab his cheeks and make him look at me. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
“Bed? Hell yes,” he shouts and allows me to help to his feet, but he’s stumbling, so I wrap his arm around my shoulders as I lead him to the bedroom. I prop him up as I pull back the covers before trying to lower him, but he flops onto his back. Shaking my head, I unlace his shoes and pull them off, then his socks. I should remove his jeans, but honestly, I can’t bring myself to. I do pull his shirt off though, having to roll him to the side to do it—he needs to be in this position anyway. I throw it on the floor, knowing it’s ruined, before I pull the sheet up. So many memories of doing this with my brother barrel into my mind. I’m disappointed, I thought they were better.
It seems poor or rich, all addicts are the same.
I leave the room quickly and get him a water. On the way back, I hear him yelling for me. Mischief cowers at the noise, and I spare him an apologetic look. When I get back, Alistair’s eyes are open and looking around. “I’m here now. Shush, you’re scaring Mischief,” I murmur as I grab his head and prop a pillow behind him, then press the glass to his lips. “Take a sip.”
He pushes it away, and some of it spills onto the bed, irritating me, but I grit my teeth and try again. “Please, babe, for me?” I ask nicely, and he blinks, looking from me to the glass before letting me press it to his lips again. He takes a mouthful, then pushes it away, and I set it down next to the bed.
“I’m sorry, Rora,” he slurs as I lay him back down and start to tuck him in.
“I know.” I sigh before meeting his sad eyes again. “Just—just don’t become this, okay? I’ve spent most of my life cleaning up vomit and flushing drugs to try and save someone, only to lose them anyway. Don’t ruin your life, don’t almost kill yourself, and don’t make me watch that like he did… I thought you were better than that.”
He swallows as he stares at me, and I turn away, ready to leave, when his hand grabs my arm. His grip is surprisingly strong for the state he’s in. “Stay,” he whispers. “Will you stay with me, please?”
“Alistair—” I start, but he shakes his head, trying to get up, so I scoot closer. “Okay, I’m here.”
He tugs me down, and I lie next to him as he sighs and wraps himself around me like a child. I circle my arms around him as his head rests against my chest and his legs tangle with mine. His soft, rapid breaths hit my skin, and I feel his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m here,” I repeat.
“Thank you, thank you for looking after me, baby. No one ever has.” Then he falls asleep, his snores starting a moment later. I don’t want to move in case he wakes up, so I lie there in the dark holding him, wondering what the playboy Dixen brother is hiding under all that swagger and charm. I just heard the truth and vulnerability in his voice, he meant it. No one has ever taken care of him. Ever. At least I had my parents and then Mitch before everything went to hell… Has he really never had anyone?
Mischief comes up and curls into a ball by our feet as I lie in the dark watching him sleep, praying that he doesn’t become just another user. I hope he can combat his addiction—this is what it is, after all—even if he can’t admit it. I can’t stand by and watch another person I care about kill himself—
Care about?
Since when do I care about Alistair Dixen?
Shit.
I’m so screwed.
