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When Dylan opened his eyes, his friend was standing over him, his hands pressed against the arms of the chair. His black hair and mustache looked prim and proper, even though he had just been in his tiger form.
“You need to get your shit together, man,” Gibson said, his eyes unwavering.
“What are you talking about?” Dylan grimaced.
Gibson scoffed, then raised a hand to sway around the room like a maestro at an orchestra. “This!” Gibson said. “You’ve been brooding up here like some born-again nun for months. When are you going to give yourself a break?”
“Spare me your passive insults, Gibson,” Dylan said, his gaze cast downward as he picked up his wine glass. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Will you ever be?” Gibson said, sauntering around the room. “You’re a king who never leaves his castle. What kind of life is that?”
Dylan could feel his anger boiling inside him, starting at his gut and coursing through his veins. He knew what Gibson was going to say next, what he had been hearing for months on end, refusing to believe a single word of it.
Gibson narrowed his gaze, then lowered his voice. “Jazzy wasn’t your fault, Dylan,” he said softly. “Slick is a sick son of a bitch, and he fooled us all.”
The whisper of her name rocketed the rage through his bones, causing him to launch the glass of wine backward and fire it forward. It shattered on the floor beneath the record playing with a crisp and startling sound. Gibson jumped back slightly, whipping his head back at his friend with glaring, frightened eyes.
Dylan was leaning forward in the chair, squeezing his fists so hard that they were turning as white as a fresh egg.
“Ofcourse, it was my fucking fault,” Dylan snarled. “I know it was my fault. I’m tired of hearing everyone trying to console me for something I know I did wrong.”
Gibson’s fear melted away, gazing down at the broken glass and dark red liquid pooled on the hardwood floor. What Dylan saw on Gibson’s face when he looked back was compassion, which helped some of his anger dissipate, even if only slightly.
“Now, you have to come with me,” Gibson said, his voice as calm as a still river. “Our friendship depends upon it.”
Dylan knew at that moment that he had only two choices. He could refuse to go with the only man who had stuck with him over the past few months of pain, possibly ruining something he treasured deeply. Or he could go along and participate in whatever his friend had planned for him.
There was really no choice, even when he thought about it briefly.
“Fine,” Dylan muttered.
Gibson took Dylan to a nearby restaurant that looked like it was about to close. The lights were dimming, and the servers were lifting chairs to stack on tables.
Dylan looked around and spotted his mother dressed in a stylish blouse and skirt. Her shiny gray hair streamed down her shoulders, a cat-eye slant of eyeliner highlighting her magnificent eyes.
Gibson guided Dylan to the table with his mother, along with another cultivated-looking older woman. She, too, had gray hair that sat neatly at her shoulders, but she looked up at him with a sage expression Dylan had yet to encounter.
“Good evening, son,” his mother said.
He stood there, holding his arms open as the servers cleaned up around them. It was nearly two in the morning, and all he wanted to do was curl up with a delicious glass of wine and lull himself into a dreamless sleep.
“I’m Gerri Wilder,” the other woman said, holding a glass of wine. “You may have heard of me.”
Dylan pursued his lips. He had.
“So what is this all about?” he snapped.
His mother stood from her seat, smoothing out her deep purple blouse. She came to him and placed her hands on his elbows, which were all she could reach at the time.
“We are here to help you get back into the world. You have been cooped up for way too long, my son. You are withering away.”
Dylan shot a look at Gerri, who was smirking. “So you think that a matchmaker is going to fix all of that?” Dylan grumbled.
“It’s a step in the right direction,” Gibson said, standing behind him.
Gerri rose from her seat and came over to stand near his mother. Gerri placed a hand on her shoulder, her wise gaze unwavering.
“The point isn’t to fix,” Gerri said. “It’s to ease you back into the world. Meeting someone might help, even if it's a brief dalliance.”
