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“Come in,” I grumble loud enough to be heard.
I flick on the lamp just as the door cracks open, and two figures slip into the room, closing the door behind them.
Sitting up, I go to run my fingers through sweaty hair, when something hard knocks into my face, and a twinge of pain shoots up my arm.
Plaster.
Right.
Broken hand.
“Nice, man,” Waylon says in that sharp, sarcastic voice of his. “Lovin’ the new accessory.”
I flip him off with the middle finger of my good hand, just as Jeremy brushes past him, and rounds the bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.
Our gazes clash, and for a split second, as always, my lungs cease.
As if sensing the agony momentarily ripping through me, he hangs his head, letting his hair fall over his face. But he’s always done that, so maybe it’s just my own paranoia.
“What are you guys doing here?” I mutter, wincing when I try to scoot myself back against the headboard. I’m caked with sweat, my shirt sticking to me. Grimacing, I go to rip it off, when I hiss, remembering my injury.
Goddamnit.
Jeremy coughs, probably trying to hide a laugh. I ignore them both.
Growling, I bear through the pain, all but tearing the shirt the rest of the way off before whipping it across the room.
Waylon’s slow-clapping, and in the corner of my eye, Jeremy’s got his head bowed, fingers worrying at the ends of his hair.
I grunt. “Be useful and grab me a shirt, will you?”
Jeremy drops his hands and pushes off the bed, heading for my dresser.
Shit. “I wasn’t talking to you,” I call out, but he just ignores me and rifles through my dresser. I sigh.
“Why the fuck do you think we’re here, asshole?” Waylon says, and the sound of a zipper, followed by a rustle of paper. Turning, I watch as he digs out a handle of vodka from a paper bag, one he’d stuffed inside his sweatshirt. “We’re here to get shitfaced. Look, I even managed to snag your favorite. Vlad.”
“Kind of you,” I mutter dryly as he breaks the seal on the cap.
Jeremy returns to the bed, tossing me a black ball of fabric. I gather it up with my good hand—my non-dominant hand—squeezing until my knuckles turn white. Fuck.
A throat clears, then?—
“Here.”
Jeremy says it so softly, it’s not until he scoots over and takes the shirt from me, that it registers he even spoke at all.
Blowing out a breath, I nod a silent thanks as he shakes out the shirt, and eases my injured arm through the sleeve first, followed by my head, and then my good arm. The distinct sound of liquid glug-glugging as Waylon throws it back fills the otherwise silent room.
Staring blankly straight ahead, I sit forward, letting the fabric fall over my torso. Fingers brush my bare chest in the process, and my breath hitches, my gaze flying up to his as a fuzzy memory of him having done this before flashes across my mind.
His lips thin and he quickly pulls away, putting his back to me.
I glance down, taking in the Pearl Jam emblem stretched out across my chest. I didn’t notice the writing when it was all rolled up, but on my back is a long list of tour dates and locations. Including the show Jeremy and I went to a couple years ago, a combined birthday present from our parents when we turned seventeen.
It was just Jeremy and me. He drove us, since he was the only one with a car at the time.
They weren’t the best seats—far from it. We could barely make out the stage. But hell if we didn’t have the best time ever. My chest aches now as I remember how even Jeremy sang along, belting out the words, jumping around, just as infected by the energy as I was.
