01-19-2023, 07:31 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-19-2023, 10:30 PM by Jay Carpenter.)
[[Continued from Don't Belong Here, at Almaz]]
His head was pounding. A groan, and Jay snatched a pillow to smother his own face. The room couldn’t be dark enough, he thought, wincing at the curtains. There was some button somewhere that shadowed the glass behind them, but fuck if he knew where to find it. So he buried his face in the pillow and drifted. The next time he opened his eyes, the wish had come true. It was coffin-dark. A good solid coffin like the kind his brothers and sisters were shipped home in. Sealed up. Peaceful.
He waved his arm over the side-table. The clink of bottles sang their song in return. Eventually, he found one that sounded duller than the rest and put it to his lips. A tangy liquid passed his tongue. The fuck? he pulled it back to study the label. The hell did this come from? He hadn’t tasted Pimm’s since he was a teenager. Got wasted on it at 16 at a barn party. It looked like blood when it came back up, he remembered. Freaked a lot of them out at first.
So at some point in the last, uhh, however long it had been, he found a bottle of Pimm’s? After some flopping to the edge of the mattress, he stared, realizing all the empty bottles were from the same fruity-based gin. Now that, uhh, one way to party, he supposed, and pinched his eyes shut, trying to remember.
He remembered lots of spinning. After leaving Almaz, every time he closed his eyes, it felt like riding a tilt-a-whirl while tripping on PCP. Which meant he kept his eyes open and fixed dead ahead. On whatever. Seven tried to make him go to a doctor. But that was definitely passed over in exchange for finding a real strip-club. Then the awkward conversation about which gender of dancers he preferred. Meaning, there were plenty of guys who pulled off some looks better than others. Including Seven. He vaguely remembered them talking about shirts? Not quite what exactly. But it had been fascinating and hilarious at the time. But he opted for the regular old fashioned traditional type of strip club. Pretty sure. And rolling to the side, he realized why. There it was, a bit of black lace left on a pillow. Caught? Bought? Definitely something. Had the girl that wore it been there? Or did he just come away with a trophy? Creepy.
He looked down at himself then. Yep. Buck ass naked. Seemed about right. Not so much as a sheet in sight. Kicked off or tore off, he wasn’t sure. But the only thing that was sore was his head. So most likely had been the girl. He grumbled and sat up, rubbing his scalp. Not like it was the first time there were holes punched through bad memories. Unlikely to be the last. Probably didn’t do anything weird. Just normal stuff. Right?
The door was shut. The window dark. Not from the button but because it was fucking night. Probably not the same night, he assumed, and padded away to find the bathroom. The second he flipped on the light, he regretted it. But the mirror powered up enough to display the date and reflect a piss-poor image of a man back at him.
He stared at the display. Two days. It’d been two days since stirring out of the coma of the last binger. He’d gone downstairs for food. Met a Viking dude. Pounded his fist on Nox’s face at Almaz. At least his hand didn’t hurt anymore. Naked girls. Actually, he rather wished he remembered more of the naked girls. Then… nothing. Except apparently Pimm’s. Where the hell did the Pimm’s come from?
He powered up the shower and gave up trying to remember.
The wallet was on the floor, kicked almost under the furniture. He regretted bending down to get it. The spinning wanted to return, and he opted to fall into a chair to hold him while scanning it for evidence of his life the past few days.
There were pictures. Ones that probably felt steamy hot at the time but now made him cringe. Seven was in some of them. Two girls he didn’t recognize. Deleted those immediately. The messages weren’t much better.
Then he found one near the bottom of the queue.
”Pancakes” it read. The time stamp from the morning before. A pin on a map.
Goddammit. He opened the thread. Almost not able to look.
A fucking string of incoherent responses. From video loops of funny breakfast moments. To a picture of his bloody hand. To a mention of making Cayli chocolate chip pancakes. That hurt. They scrolled a long time.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The hangover flopping his stomach sick.
I am so sorry. I was fucking drunk out of my mind, he sent the first coherent message in return. I would kill for pancakes right now. Please come. After hitting send, he regretted the particular phrase. Since she’d seen him actually kill people. Probably bad choice of words there.
He almost hated to see what the rest of the suite looked like. Some time later, towel wrapped around his hips, he hoped some snacks had been left behind with the bottles. And that Natalie would answer fast.
The suite was the same one in Adrian Kane’s hotel. It was shockingly clean. Didn’t look anything like the bedroom. A plate of fruit and pastries waited on a table. Along with a bottle of tylenol and salt tabs. Had housekeeping been in while he was passed out? Also kind of creepy, but whatever. He shrugged and opted to swallow a handful of pills before anything else.
“Feeling better?” a voice asked.
The bottle flew out of his hand like an erupting white volcano. He jumped and turned.
His head was pounding. A groan, and Jay snatched a pillow to smother his own face. The room couldn’t be dark enough, he thought, wincing at the curtains. There was some button somewhere that shadowed the glass behind them, but fuck if he knew where to find it. So he buried his face in the pillow and drifted. The next time he opened his eyes, the wish had come true. It was coffin-dark. A good solid coffin like the kind his brothers and sisters were shipped home in. Sealed up. Peaceful.
He waved his arm over the side-table. The clink of bottles sang their song in return. Eventually, he found one that sounded duller than the rest and put it to his lips. A tangy liquid passed his tongue. The fuck? he pulled it back to study the label. The hell did this come from? He hadn’t tasted Pimm’s since he was a teenager. Got wasted on it at 16 at a barn party. It looked like blood when it came back up, he remembered. Freaked a lot of them out at first.
So at some point in the last, uhh, however long it had been, he found a bottle of Pimm’s? After some flopping to the edge of the mattress, he stared, realizing all the empty bottles were from the same fruity-based gin. Now that, uhh, one way to party, he supposed, and pinched his eyes shut, trying to remember.
He remembered lots of spinning. After leaving Almaz, every time he closed his eyes, it felt like riding a tilt-a-whirl while tripping on PCP. Which meant he kept his eyes open and fixed dead ahead. On whatever. Seven tried to make him go to a doctor. But that was definitely passed over in exchange for finding a real strip-club. Then the awkward conversation about which gender of dancers he preferred. Meaning, there were plenty of guys who pulled off some looks better than others. Including Seven. He vaguely remembered them talking about shirts? Not quite what exactly. But it had been fascinating and hilarious at the time. But he opted for the regular old fashioned traditional type of strip club. Pretty sure. And rolling to the side, he realized why. There it was, a bit of black lace left on a pillow. Caught? Bought? Definitely something. Had the girl that wore it been there? Or did he just come away with a trophy? Creepy.
He looked down at himself then. Yep. Buck ass naked. Seemed about right. Not so much as a sheet in sight. Kicked off or tore off, he wasn’t sure. But the only thing that was sore was his head. So most likely had been the girl. He grumbled and sat up, rubbing his scalp. Not like it was the first time there were holes punched through bad memories. Unlikely to be the last. Probably didn’t do anything weird. Just normal stuff. Right?
The door was shut. The window dark. Not from the button but because it was fucking night. Probably not the same night, he assumed, and padded away to find the bathroom. The second he flipped on the light, he regretted it. But the mirror powered up enough to display the date and reflect a piss-poor image of a man back at him.
He stared at the display. Two days. It’d been two days since stirring out of the coma of the last binger. He’d gone downstairs for food. Met a Viking dude. Pounded his fist on Nox’s face at Almaz. At least his hand didn’t hurt anymore. Naked girls. Actually, he rather wished he remembered more of the naked girls. Then… nothing. Except apparently Pimm’s. Where the hell did the Pimm’s come from?
He powered up the shower and gave up trying to remember.
The wallet was on the floor, kicked almost under the furniture. He regretted bending down to get it. The spinning wanted to return, and he opted to fall into a chair to hold him while scanning it for evidence of his life the past few days.
There were pictures. Ones that probably felt steamy hot at the time but now made him cringe. Seven was in some of them. Two girls he didn’t recognize. Deleted those immediately. The messages weren’t much better.
Then he found one near the bottom of the queue.
”Pancakes” it read. The time stamp from the morning before. A pin on a map.
Goddammit. He opened the thread. Almost not able to look.
A fucking string of incoherent responses. From video loops of funny breakfast moments. To a picture of his bloody hand. To a mention of making Cayli chocolate chip pancakes. That hurt. They scrolled a long time.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The hangover flopping his stomach sick.
I am so sorry. I was fucking drunk out of my mind, he sent the first coherent message in return. I would kill for pancakes right now. Please come. After hitting send, he regretted the particular phrase. Since she’d seen him actually kill people. Probably bad choice of words there.
He almost hated to see what the rest of the suite looked like. Some time later, towel wrapped around his hips, he hoped some snacks had been left behind with the bottles. And that Natalie would answer fast.
The suite was the same one in Adrian Kane’s hotel. It was shockingly clean. Didn’t look anything like the bedroom. A plate of fruit and pastries waited on a table. Along with a bottle of tylenol and salt tabs. Had housekeeping been in while he was passed out? Also kind of creepy, but whatever. He shrugged and opted to swallow a handful of pills before anything else.
“Feeling better?” a voice asked.
The bottle flew out of his hand like an erupting white volcano. He jumped and turned.
Only darkness shows you the light.