Chapter 56

Jeremy and Willare drunk off their asses.

As is just about everybody else, thanks to whatever the hell Ivy put in that giant cooler, and was handing out like Gatorade at a marathon.

We end up closing earlier than usual, having to call more cabs and rideshares than ever before—which is a bitch to do, and time-consuming, seeing as we're in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately, most people can just walk home.

On the bright side, we made a fucking killing tonight.

"See? Told you I'd close us an hour early."

Shaking my head, I glance at the guys currently huddled over a table against the wall, giggling amongst themselves, their mouths stained blue. "And them?"

Ivy follows my gaze, and shrugs. "Casualties. They didn't have to drink it."

"You told Will it was bad juju for the game," Waylon says wryly from where he stacks clean glasses together.

"Yeah, and just like all the other idiots"—she sweeps a hand around the room, her sharp black nails glinting off the light—"he couldn't resist."

I snort.

"And Jeremy? What about him?" Waylon asks.

"Jeremy wanted to get shitfaced, plain and simple."

At her words, I feel a tug of unease, and I flit a look over to the only remaining occupied table, frowning.

"And I'm still mad at you," Ivy snaps, before stomping off.

Waylon blows out a harsh breath, and mutters something before turning away to throw something out.

Across the room, Jeremy's got his head thrown back in laughter. I can hear it from all the way over here and despite the worry still niggling at me, I feel a squeeze in my chest at the sight of it—the sound.

I can't remember the last time, if ever, that I've witnessed him laugh so freely.

Probably not since we were kids, and even then…

There's always been something so restrained about him. Like he was afraid to so much as breathe too loud.

Is this what he's like at college, away from this place? Away from us…away from me… I can't help but wonder, a sinking feeling forming in my gut.

Will slumps against him, barely able keep his eyes open, blue lips stretched into a lazy grin.

"Looks like they hit it off," Waylon says, an odd sort of edge to his tone.

I cut him a glance. I didn't hear him return. "Yeah. Looks like it."

His jaw ticks, and I wonder what that's about.

It strikes me that maybe what I'm feeling isn't so abnormal—perhaps Waylon's feeling protective of Jeremy too.

Yeah, that must be it.

Not to mention his distrust of Will.

"Any bets on who hurls first?"

Huffing a short laugh, I glance over at Waylon. "Really? My money's on J."

Waylon tsks, shaking his head. "Nah, he's in college now. He knows how to party."

"And Will doesn't? Didn't he go to Temple?"

He scoffs. "Yeah, like a year ago. But he played football. He had to behave." His eyes glint with a sort of knowing amusement. "Trust me, his tolerance is shit."

I narrow my eyes. "Really?"

"Yup," he says easily, before turning away.

Well, glad to see they're starting to get along.

"Hey," I call out, just as Shawn returns from the basement, black garbage bags and a broom in hand.

Waylon pauses to look over his shoulder. I glance around for Ivy, ensuring she's not in listening range. I don't see her. Regardless I take a step closer, and drop my voice so it's just for him.

"She's still mad?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, but she'll get it over it." He says it like it's no big deal, but I don't miss the glint of remorse in his eyes, or the shame rippling across his features. It comes and goes so quick though, I instantly wonder if I saw it at all.

Searching his shockingly clear eyes, I can't help but recall what I overheard earlier, and risk asking, "Does her being mad at you have anything to do with whatever made you quit drinking?"

His face hardens. "It was a bunch of things. And I'm just cutting back for a bit."

I nod, and am about to say, Good for you, when he throws out sharply, "Did Jeremy ask you about the benefit?"

I still.

A wince pinches his face, and he looks away, muttering something under his breath.

"He did. And it's not happening," I say stiffly.

He nods and mutters, "Right." With that, he walks away, and my heart gives a dull thump.

Hanging my head, I stare at my hands, taking in the bruises and redness surrounding my knuckles. The scabs healing over. I've been down in the basement nearly every night now for weeks, taking it out the heavy bag until I've busted through the tape, and am seconds from keeling over.

A laugh travels across the room—his laugh. Breathy and raspy…

Not unlike the moan I heard over the phone weeks ago.

I clench my fists and close my eyes, counting to five as the blood roars in my ears.

Big mistake.

The second they're shut, I'm greeted with an image of wandering masculine hands buried in thick white strands of hair. A smooth creamy back arching. Two little dimples sinking into the dip right above a plush ass, covered only by thin black boxer briefs, like the ones I saw years ago.

This time, the guy in my head man-handling him lifts his head, and it's not a faceless stranger. It's Will. Will, who's surging down to claim Jeremy's lips in a fierce kiss, and I?—

"Mason?"

My eyes fly open, and I rear back, when I find Shawn only a couple feet away.

He stares at me, brows furrowed over dark unreadable eyes.

"Y-yeah?"

He thrusts the broom at me, and I nod. Right. Get to work.

"You good?" he says shortly. He's been asking that a lot lately.

"Yeah, just tired," I tell him, my voice pitching ever so slightly.

He eyes me skeptically. "Uh huh. Still not sleeping well?"

I nod, and avert my gaze. Not a lie.

I can feel him scouring my face, looking for some kind of explanation. He won't get one. Not…not this. He won't understand. I don't even fucking understand.

Still, I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

Can he tell how fucked in the head I am?

I feel hot.

Nauseous.

My pulse beats rapid-fire against my neck. Tugging at the collar, I turn away from Shawn, blinking around the room, not really seeing anything.

Izzy.

Izzy, Izzy, Izzy.

Chanting her name to myself summons forth a tide of grief.

What the hell would she say if she knew the shit I was thinking?

She's out there, God knows where, waiting for someone to find her—rescue her—and what the fuck am I doing?

Thinking about what her brother looks like naked and in the throes of passion.

Guilt pummels me, and I close my eyes, welcoming it. It's the least I deserve. An image of her appears in my mind, her amber eyes round and glassy with hurt. Betrayal.

The thought of how devastated she'd be spears through my chest, seizing my lungs, stealing my next breath.

Good. Let it rip you apart.

You're no better than your dad.

Good for nothing, flaky, selfish piece of?—

My eyes fly open, a newfound resolve washing over me, steeling my spine and hardening my features. Clutching the broom, I round the bar, and start sweeping up discarded cups and balled up cocktail napkins and whatever else found its way to the floor.

I can still feel Shawn's gaze on me, but I ignore it, telling myself there's nothing to see here.

I'm just confused.

I'm sleep deprived.

Whatever all this is…it's not real.

Misplaced.

Nodding to myself, I replay through what my therapist said a while back.

Transference.

Coping mechanism.

Codependence.

That's all this is. Jeremy's my friend, just like he's always been. My brain's just looking for something to latch on. A substitute.

Biting back a grimace and the immediate surge of indignation—of denial and guilt and no, no, I wouldn't fucking reduce him to that—I busy myself with sweeping, making a pointed effort to ignore the drunken laughter and slurred conversation coming from the table against the wall.

Seconds give way to minutes, and by the time we get the bar cleaned up, I notice how quiet it's gotten, save for the low rock music coming from the jukebox. "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum.

Ivy left at some point—missed that too—leaving just Shawn, Waylon, and me, and the two guys slouched against the wall, barely able to keep their eyes open.

Waylon shakes Will as I try to rouse Jeremy.

He groans and bats me away, flopping over to rest his head on the table. He doesn't even bother bringing his arms up to pillow his face.

Fighting back a laugh, I say, "Hey. Don't do that. Come on, JJ, you can sleep in my be—on the couch," I quickly rectify, shooting a paranoid glance over at Waylon.

He doesn't seem to be paying attention to me though, thankfully. He's too busy throwing Will's arm around his neck, and muttering under his breath about payback being a bitch.

"Don't wanna. Not my name," a voice mumbles.

I look down at Jeremy. His cheek's smushed against the table, lips pushed out and parted. They're tinged blue, and glisten like he'd wet them recently. White hair glimmering silver in this light curls over his eyes, and my fingers itch with the urge to run my fingers through it. Push it back.

Is it as silky and soft as it looks?

Thudding footsteps draw near, and says, "I'll help Way. You got him?"

I nod, and shake Jeremy's shoulder again. "Come on, drunky. Get on my back. I'll carry you up."

He lifts his face, squinting at me. "Huh?"

My chest squeezes again. Fuck, if he isn't utterly adorable right now.

Shawn and Waylon are already halfway across the room, Will's arms slung over their shoulders, his boots dragging across the hardwood floor as they round the bar, and head for the stairs. Jesus, Ivy, what did you put in that cooler?

Tugging a floppy Jeremy up, I crouch down, and grip his wrists, guiding them around my neck. "Hold tight, 'kay?"

"I can do it," he says stubbornly, and with more energy than I thought possible, jumps onto my back.

I stumble forward, catching him under the thighs, my hip knocking roughly into the table. He's far from heavy, but I'm not expecting it. Fortunately, I manage to get my feet under me before I send us crashing to the floor.

He giggles—fucking giggles, holding onto me like a goddamn monkey. Fighting a smile, I hike him up my back, and make my way toward the stairs.

Who knew quiet, shy, awkward Jeremy Montgomery was such a happy, cuddly drunk? I sure didn't.

He was definitely not happy and giggly on the phone that night…

The second the thought enters my mind, I cast it off.

Forget it. It didn't happen.

The red beaded curtain that separates the bar from the stairs still sways from where the others just passed through. Above I hear heavy, dragging steps thudding across the floors, growing faster and fainter as they make their way across the apartment.

Grunting, I grip the railing with one hand, and Jeremy's right thigh with the other. His other leg starts to fall, making his hold on my neck grow borderline asphyxiating.

"Jer. Can't breathe."

He hikes up his leg, scooting himself up my back and adjusting his grip on me. And in doing so, his face falls into the space between my shoulder and neck. My breath hitches, but, hey, at least I can breathe again.

He sniffs, and my steps falter.

Did he just…

"Did you just smell me?" I ask, a choked, nervous laugh scraping out of me.

"Mm," he says, nodding, rubbing his nose over my neck.

Oh shit.

Blinking hard, I clear my throat, and quicken our ascent up the stairs. He wiggles around on my back, and all my senses seem to hone in on where I imagine his dick is. I can't feel it—not yet—but I brace myself like it could happen at any second.

Abort, abort, abort.

Logically, I knew he's probably way too fucked up to get hard right now.

But, still. I don't want to risk it. I don't even know what the fuck I'd do—how I'd handle it. He's probably too far gone, that he wouldn't even notice. But then that would be two things about him I just shouldn't fucking know.

The feel of his hard-on pressing into me.

The sounds of his moans.

Hell, third, if we count that glimpse of his ass and bulge through his boxers I got years ago.

At the memory, my grip on him releases. Not expecting it, he falls off, and I whirl around, catching him just before he can crash against the floor.

He collapses into my chest, his head mashing against my mouth.

It is as soft and silky and fluffy as I imagined.

Stop!

Shaking my head, I grip his shoulders, and nudge him back, steadying him when he teeters.

An amber eyes cracks open, and he looks around, visibly confused. "Where am I?"

"Upstairs. You gonna be sick?"

He shakes his head. "Lay down."

"Right."

I guide him into the living room, and help him to the couch. He flops over on his side, legs hanging off the cushions. Grabbing a throw pillow, I shove it under his head, ignoring the way my fingers flex over his slackened cheek.

I'm about to take off his black and white Chucks, when a heaving sound filters down the hall from Waylon's room.

Will.

They must've taken him to his en suite, rather than the main bathroom. Probably figured Jeremy might need it, and we were behind them.

I glance down at Jeremy with a frown. His eyes are open, and he's blinking sluggishly.

"You good for a second?" I say.

He nods.

"I'll get you a blanket. Be right back."

Where the hallway begins, I pause and turn, sparing him one final look to ensure he's on his side. Making a mental note to grab a garbage can or something just in case he does throw up. Guess Waylon was right…

Bypassing my room and Shawn's right across, I head for the open door at the end of the hall leading to the primary. Inside, I find Waylon easing Will to the floor on his side.

Grabbing a pillow from his bed, I toss it over to Shawn. "You sure you don't want to move him to the couch?" I don't add that Jeremy can just sleep in my bed. It wouldn't be a big deal at all if he did. It's not like we haven't shared a bed dozens of times before.

But as far as Waylon knows, we haven't shared a bed since we were kids. With the exception of that night a few years ago, the night I broke my hand…the one year anniversary of Izzy's disappearance. The date they put on her death certificate…her headstone.

I shake away the thought.

I don't look too closely as to why it feels wrong telling Waylon about all those nights I spent in Jeremy's bed.

We're just friends. It meant nothing. I was drunk or high and I just didn't want to sleep alone.

A voice pipes up, And last year when he visited? What was that about?

"It's fine," Waylon says, drawing me back to the present. "Let Jeremy have the couch when he's done throwing his guts up. Will can just crash here." He stands, flushing the toilet. "He'll probably regret it come morning, but that's what he gets for giving in to Ivy."

I don't bother correcting him about Jeremy. Instead I find myself saying, "Nice change of pace for you, huh?"

He flips me off. "Funny."

Shawn and I share a knowing look.

To say I was relieved to find out he'd been cutting back would be an understatement. I did notice he was around more in recent weeks. And by that, I mean sleeping here. Before, he'd usually stumble in late into the night—or early morning, depending on how you look at it. Or he'd say he was crashing at Ivy's.

Since they're fighting though…

"Look, I kind of owe him one," he says. "It's really no sweat."

I eye him curiously, wondering what that's about, remembering what he mumbled downstairs about payback. I figured he was saying he'd get payback on Will…but maybe Ivy's not the only one who has something to do with this newfound sobriety of his.

Why do I feel like he's hiding something?

"You sure? We can take shifts or something," I say, frowning.

"He's drunk, not dying," Shawn says dryly.

I roll my eyes.

"He'll be fine," Waylon says, ushering us out of the bathroom. "We've all been where he's at, and we've all survived to drink another day."

I slide him a flat, unimpressed look.

He waves me off. "You know what I mean. Now go check on Jeremy, Mother Hen."

The second the words leave him, I stiffen. And I don't miss the way his eyes shoot up to mine, widening.

Memories surge up of all the times we—him mostly—jokingly called Izzy a mother hen—a mama bear—growing up. Out of the three of us—four of us, if you count Jeremy—she was always the most…caring, for lack of a better word. Not because she was a girl—or at least, not just because she was a girl, the only one amongst us—but because of how fiercely protective she was.

Jeremy used to call her smothering.

And I suppose in a way she was. But it was never with ill intent.

She just cared…a lot. To an aggressive, pushy degree at times.

"Mas—"

I hold up a hand, and rush out tightly, "It's okay." My voice cracks. "It's fine."

Izzyizzyizzyizzy…

This time, the reminder of her isn't welcome.

It just fucking hurts.

She's still out there. Don't give up now. Just don't think about it. She's alive.

"I…"

"Come on," Shawn interjects, shooting Waylon an unreadable look as he waves me out of the room.

Out in the hall, I stare straight ahead, my mind racing, fracturing—unable to land on any thought other than to keep going, keep moving. Focus on what you can control.

Jeremy.

Blanket.

Garbage can.

Make sure he doesn't choke on his vomit.

The door clicks shut softly behind me, and I turn to find Shawn eyeing me warily. "You okay?"

I nod.

"Sure about that? You've been acting weird all night. Hell, for weeks now. Need to talk? Work out? Have it out with the bag?"

Huffing a tired laugh, I shake my head. "Nah. Not now. Maybe later, I'll head down if I can't sleep." I jack a thumb behind me. "Gonna grab J a blanket."

I go to turn when his next words halt me.

"Be careful."

Everything in me stills.

Slowly, so slowly, I turn, cocking my head, a thread of awareness creeping up my spine.

Shawn's dark, unflinching gaze drifts from mine to the living room over my shoulder. His features tighten, and my mouth dries, pulse racing.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I murmur.

He steps forward, just close enough that we don't touch, and returns his gaze to me when he drops his voice. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about."

I stare at him. "He's my friend."

His features bunch, eyes searching between mine. "Mase…"

"What?"

"He's not her."

A chill rushes over me, and I find myself stumbling back a step as if he hit me. I kind of wish he did—that would be far less…complicated. Painful.

Infuriating.

Shaking my head, I scowl. I open my mouth to say something—to tell him he's wrong, he's being stupid… Whatever it is he thinks is going on…

It's just wrong.

Sure about that?

The denial dies on my tongue.

He watches me with a solemn, grave sort of intensity.

"You think I don't know that?" I murmur, a dangerous edge to my tone.

His eyes flare ever so faintly.

My lip curls, and I take another step back, then another, slowly shaking my head. "You don't know anything."

"Mason—"

Whirling around, I head for my room, catching my door just before I can slam it. The last thing I want right now is to alert Waylon to the tension, or worse, poke through Jeremy's drunkenness.

Leaning back against the door, closing it with a soft click, I tilt my head back, screwing my eyes shut.

Footsteps thunk down the hall, and a moment later, I hear Waylon's door open. Frowning, I wait to see if he needs something, but when nothing comes, I figure maybe I just misheard and it was Shawn disappearing into his room.

Pulling out my phone, I check the time. A little after midnight.

My eyes linger on the date at the top.

September 14th.

Which means tomorrow—Monday—it'll officially be four years since Izzy disappeared.

Jaw quivering, I lock the screen, and toss my phone on my bed. Storming for my dresser, I rip off my shirt, and throw on a clean one—a solid white tee to replace the black. Toeing off my boots, I strip off my jeans and throw on a pair of dark gray joggers, and switch out my socks.

I debate grabbing something for Jeremy, but I figure at this point, he's probably already passed out. And frankly, I really, really don't want to wrestle him out of those skinny jeans he loves so much.

It's crazy to think he's the same kid who used to hide behind layers of baggy clothes.

Running my hand through my hair, I grab a spare comforter from my closet.

At my door, I pause when I hear footsteps coming from what sounds like Waylon's room. My fingers flex around the knob.

A moment later, a door creaks open, and closes.

This time, I know that that was Shawn's room.

I give it another couple seconds, straining my ears. When I hear the familiar strum of a guitar, I blow out a sigh of relief, and gently, quietly turn the knob.

Both doors are shut now.

With the blanket bundled in my arms, I pad toward the living room, ensuring to avoid the creaky floorboards I know are there.

In the living room, Jeremy is curled up on his side still, but now he's facing the couch cushions, spine curved. His black Henley rucked up some, exposing a swath of pale skin just above the grey boxer band peeking out above his jeans.

Averting my gaze, I quickly round the coffee table, shake out the blanket, and throw it over him. He makes a small noise of protest, not quite a groan, but a telling noise all the same, and I mutter a curse.

"Shit, just-just wait."

Rushing over to the attached kitchen, I grab the metal trash can and carry it over to where he rolls over on the couch.

"Here," I say, popping the lid.

He sits up on his forearm, and screws his face up when he sees what I brought him.

"No," he says petulantly, with a pathetic shove.

"Seriously?"

Scowling, he cuddles up with the pillow.

"Okayyyy," I drag out, letting the lid fall shut. I set it to the side. "Suit yourself."

He mumbles something, and I cock an amused brow.

"What was that?"

He wrinkles his nose, shaking his head. "M'fine."

"Ah." I slide from my knees to my ass, hooking an arm around my shin. "Well, that's good."

He smacks his lips and I grin.

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Laughing at me."

"Sorry," I murmur, still smiling like an idiot.

It's impossible not to.

Huffing, he flings a hand out, fingers glancing off my jaw.

Rearing back, I say, "Did you just try to slap me?"

"No…" He mumbles something that I'm pretty sure isn't in English. And then he pushes up suddenly, resting all his weight on his forearms. His eyes crack open, revealing bleary slits. "Why are you here?" His words run together, slurring.

"I live here."

"Nuh uh."

"Yes, huh."

"My couch."

I hold back a snort. "Sure it is."

He frowns, and again swipes his hand out. I catch his wrist this time, steadying him. Only it doesn't ward him off…it just encourages him to bridge the distance.

His fingers stutter over my cheek, and I'm pretty sure my heart stops the second he makes contact.

"What are you doing?" I say numbly, my voice sounding very far away suddenly.

"Checkin'."

"For what?"

Again, whatever falls from his lips can hardly be considered English. Much less any discernible language.

Shaking my head, I go to give him back his hand, when his fingers slide over, and brush my lips, lingering there.

I freeze, tensing all over. I don't even breathe.

He grunts when his fingertip catches lightly on my lip ring.

Tingles crawl down my neck, spreading goosebumps over my arms.

I swallow, hard, blinking rapidly. Helpless to do anything but hold very still.

"Mase Face," he says on a sigh, and his lip crooks up in a stupidly adorable smile.

Jesus.

He flops down and groans into the pillow, his fingers falling from my face. His slim wrist is still clamped between my fingers, his hand now hanging limply in the air where I hold it between us.

More nonsensical chatter trickles in and out of my ear.

"Sorry."

At that, I snap out of whatever the fuck that just was, and drop his wrist like it burned me.

His arm falls against the side of the couch, slackened fingers curling over the carpet. He doesn't make an effort to move it.

Shaking my head, I say, "What? Why are you sorry?"

He shrugs, and puffs out a breath, silver strands of hair fluttering up from his eyes.

Before I can think better of it, I reach out, and brush it back.

His eyes fly open, wide and glassy, and I freeze.

He mouths something?—

No, not something. My name. Mason.

A weird sort of awareness creeps in the longer I stare at him. He said my name, and he's looking right at me, but it's like he's not here. He's somewhere else completely.

"Mason," he breathes this time, and his face bunches as he starts to shake his head.

"Hey," I utter in a hush, stroking back his hair.

Tears fill his eyes, and my heart rate kicks up.

What's happening?

"I'm sorry."

I shake my head. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes. I do," he mutters so softly I nearly miss it.

Frowning, I study him more closely, taking in the way his nostrils flare with a sniffle. He sounds sick—congested—but I know that's likely just because he's drunk.

"Shoulda been me."

At first, his words don't register.

For one impossibly long beat, I just stare at him, unblinking.

"What was that?" I finally say, barely feeling my lips move.

Glassy amber eyes the color of the richest bourbons lift to mine. "S'all my fault."

I'm shaking my head, slowly, then faster.

He keeps talking…mumbling…slurring.

Some of it makes sense. Most of it doesn't. But I catch enough.

"…better off…me 'stead a her……died…s-sorry, Mase, so sorry…"

My vision blurs, and it feels like there's a fucking elephant sitting on my chest.

"Stop." The word slips out of me, inaudible over the ringing in my ears.

"Wish it was me…" His words taper off into a silence so heavy, so profound, I'm helpless to avoid what comes next.

No. Nonononono?—

Gasping, I scramble back, staring wide and unseeing at the boy sprawled out on my couch, lashes falling over tear-stained cheeks.

This time, his eyes stay shut.

I'm shaking my head, faster and faster.

From quivering lips, he murmurs sleepily, "Mason."

And something inside me just…shatters, right down the middle. Punching a low, keening sound from deep, deep within me, and taking what little oxygen I had left.

No.

Fuck.

No.

But it's no use trying to push it away. It's too fucking late. I can't unhear what he said…any more than I can unsee the images his words conjure up. Images I've never even fucking considered, as if some part of me just…knew I wouldn't be able to handle it.

And now he's given me no choice but to confront them. Confront this.

Reality.

Because if it's not this one, where Izzy's gone…dead…

It's the one where it's Jeremy, who I've lost instead—Jeremy, who's been missing; Jeremy who's dead. And I?—

I can't.

I can't.

I—

Izzyizzyizzy, I chant inwardly, desperately, as I slam a hand over my mouth, muffling a sob—a shout—I don't even fucking know.

She's dead. She's dead.

And just like that, every steel door in my head is blown to shreds.

No warning.

No time to prepare.

Every line of defense between me and the monster with my face I've tried so hard to appease…

It's all just…

Gone.