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And now… Hah. Fuck it, now all I want is to forget everyone’s problems.
Especially mine.
***
The music is pounding in my ears as I stumble through the garden, crossing the immaculate lawn. Someone is calling my name, I think, but I ignore them. Leaving my collection of empty beer bottles on the bar, a freshly opened one in hand, I make my way through the gate and out, onto a small beach. Two torches have been stuck into the ground, shedding flickering light on the water of the lake and the sailboat moored at the dock.
This evening sucks. The beer isn’t enough to take my mind off the present. I lift my bottle and take a swig. Or maybe I haven’t had enough? I try to count in my head how many I’ve had so far and can’t remember for the life of me.
Still. Not enough. And the bartender had no hard liquor to offer. Orders of the parents of the friend of… Dylan, was it?
Frowning, I stare out at the lights on the other shore and wonder if I can swim there. Why? I don’t know. Just sounds like an activity that could stop me from thinking.
I’m really considering it, taking a step closer to the water, when I hear the gate open and close behind me.
“Hey, Zane,” a girl says—a familiar voice. “The guys said I might find you here.”
I turn around so fast I almost faceplant. “Hey,” I say and manage to slur even that little word. For shame, Zane. “Dakota.”
She’s standing right next to one of the torches, and the light dances on the pink streaks in her dark wild hair and her elfin face. Tonight she’s dressed more goth than punk—in a super short lacy dress and black stockings up to her thighs. She’s even wearing lacy cut-off gloves. They seem one with the colorful ink swirling on her forearms—a mirror of my own ink sleeves.
My mouth goes dry. Something like electricity zaps through my body, making my nerve endings hum, and my dick rises to say hi.
Fairly predictable, aren’t you, Dick the dick?
“Having a good time?” Dakota asks, shifting her weight on one foot, and placing those black-clad hands on her hips. Dark lashes flutter over her eyes.
“Awesome,” I croak, wondering if it’s possible to pass out from getting so hard. All the blood has flowed south to a certain happy part of me.
She tilts her head to the side, slender dark brows drawing together. Damn, it’s filthy hot when she does that. My cock throbs and swells, trying to bore a hole through my jeans. It’s so hard it just might.
“Zane?” She sounds exasperated.
Have I missed something? Was she talking to me? “Yeah?”
“I asked how much you’ve had to drink.”
I shrug, lift the bottle and discover it’s empty. Damn bottles are defective. They keep running dry. “A few.”
“You’re wasted.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Wasted ain’t the same as drunk.” I drop the bottle and scrub a hand over my face. “The difference is small, but distinctive. When you’re drunk, you sing or slur your words.” Like I’m doing now.
“Uh-uh.”
“When you’re wasted, you puke your guts out, and you find yourself in strangers’ beds without knowing how you got there.” At least that’s my definition, and I’m sticking to it. “I should know. I’ve done both plenty of times.”
“You have, huh?”
Another thing typical of the drunk variety: talking without any input from the brain. The automatic mouth.
Dakota laughs, and it’s like small bells tolling. “You’re funny. You’re a funny drunk.”
Did I say that out loud? I groan. “So how is it going?”
