2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I woke with a flinch of my entire body, my heart and mind racing. I immediately rolled over and tapped my phone, which laid on my bedside table, to check the time, and it glowed as it read: 2:00 A.M.

On the goddamn dot.

I laid back with a grunt, placing my hand on my bare chest and finding it damp with a cool sheen of sweat. I grimaced, the feel of it along with the tremor of unease that ran in my veins an unwelcome one, and the memory of the dream remained vivid in my mind. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until I began to see stars, blinked hard, and sighed at what replayed in my brain.

His legs were warm. Skinny to the point that my hands wrapped around them completely, my thumb overlapping my index finger on either ankle as I helped carry him. Pale. So pale that I wondered if it was due to the stoppage of blood flow to his extremities. But warm—that was the biggest thing that I remembered about it, for whatever reason—his legs were still warm.

I thought about it as I sat in Claire and Zoey's apartment a mere hour after we had disposed of him, watched him float away, and drove back to the complex. It was a ridiculous notion that we could all just go back to life as we all knew it, but that's what I felt as though I was expected to do. I sat on the couch with my head in my hands for…fuck, I don't know how long…and I was alone. Remarkably alone. Luke had Claire. Zoey had Liam—a fact that I was rapidly putting behind me. But as far as leaning on someone who could fully grasp the situation at hand, I had no one.

And it wasn't until then that I realized that Cassie was also home alone, battling her own demons just as I was.

I audibly scoffed at the idea the first time I considered it, for I didn't know her. It felt like I did, but I didn't, really. I had only met her twelve hours previously, and in those hours, she managed to immediately drive her way right under my skin, scared the ever-living shit out of me by going against all of our suggestions, made me think she could be dead in the woods somewhere, and actively helped us all consider how to dispose of a corpse. I didn't know her—but I was fairly certain that despite that, she and I were somehow trauma bonded just as the rest of our group was.

I mean, we dove toward each other while bullets were flying, for God's sake. She yanked me away from a line of fire. And now, both of us were sitting in our own abodes, wrestling with what I could only assume were similar dark thoughts.

The more that I thought about it, the crazier it seemed that we weren't in the comfort of each other's presence…so, after the seventh time that I eyeballed my car keys on the kitchen table, I stood from the couch to grab them. I drove to Cassie's place, which was straight north of me and directly into the woods. I parked in front of her tiny cabin of a house. I shut my car door loudly, as if I needed to announce my arrival, and I stood next to my vehicle for upward of a minute.

A full goddamn minute.

A full minute of attempting to talk myself out of being here. A full minute of telling myself that this was stupid. A full minute of wondering if sleep deprivation could drive someone insane.

And then, she opened her front door.

She stood on her patio in a flimsy pair of white shorts and an oversized navy t-shirt. Her hair up in a bun, her feet bare, her face tired, it was so quiet that she barely had to raise her voice to speak to me.

"What are you doing here?"

"Um…" I hesitated, my mind having gone blank, and I replied with a shrug, "I—I don't fuckin' know."

She crossed her arms. "I'm not a woman that needs comforting, if that's what you're thinking. I'm far from a damsel in distress—"

"I didn't think you were," I called back quickly.

"Then what?" she asked, her dark eyes narrowed in honest inquisition.

"I could use the company," I admitted. "Could you?"

Her arms fell by her side, her defensive stature dropped, and she nodded.

"Do you like whiskey?"

I felt my eyebrows pinch together. "I mean, yeah, but it's well before noon."

She threw her hands up. "I don't even know what time is right now, Jay. It's all relative, and no matter what the actual time of day is, I'm getting drunk. I don't want to talk about shit. All I want to do is blast these memories out of my skull with the help of my friend Jack Daniel's—and then, I'm sleeping for twenty-four hours."

Her words resonated through me, for diving into a void sounded damn near blissful. Even more, there was no mention of confiding in each other otherwise. It was an invitation to drink—to silently feel without inquisition—until we no longer could. And the more Cassie's words sank in, the more it felt like a necessity.

"You got another glass?"

"Only if you can keep up," she returned without a trace of sarcasm. "You're already here; don't make me black out alone."

I nodded in return, and she watched me as I lumbered my way up the stairs of her porch, moving to stand before her. She exhaled softly, the scent of fresh whiskey on her breath. The smell was hot—so much so that it stung my nostrils, and I considered that the liquor was most likely so recently drunk that it was still burning her tongue and lingering in her throat. I looked into her eyes, and though they were, without a doubt, exhausted, they still challenged me. I didn't know what for—they just did—and I had the desire to ask if she was alright. To inquire about her mental wellbeing after witnessing all of the horrid things that we both did…but there was no use for any of that. There was no point in asking because I knew we were both in a poor state. So, instead, I put my hands on my hips and spoke:

"You started without me?"

She shrugged. "Didn't know you were coming. You blame me?"

I shook my head. "Nah."

And so, she allowed me into her home, the rusty orange tile and dark green accents in the small kitchen familiar to me, for I had been here mere hours ago before we had all done the unspeakable. I sat at her circular dining table, all that rested upon it being a handle of Jack Daniel's that was mostly full and a single lowball glass. Cassie silently grabbed me my own glass, set it down before me with a clunk, and poured.

She sat across from me, and I looked to her, to my full glass, and then back into her eyes. She tipped her head toward my drink.

"Catch up."

I drank obediently; she filled her glass and did the same, and we continued until we were both most certainly succumbing to the effects of the alcohol. Occasionally, one of us would repeat the actions from before—grab, pour, drink—and the other would follow suit. What neither of us did, however, was speak. We simply sat with each other, drinking for the sole purpose of numbness, and the silence stretched on for there was nothing to say.

It was perhaps an hour later when we had both had more than enough. I felt my eyelids begin to droop, and the only thing that kept them open was Cassie's dark gaze turning to mine. The beautiful brown was glossed over, lost in a haze, and she threw me the tiniest of smiles. Her hand reached for mine that had been resting on the tabletop, and she squeezed. Patting it twice before letting it go in a gesture of thanks, Cassie stood from her seat.

It scooted across the tile with a grating noise, her tall body swayed, and her footsteps, which I had recently come to realize were typically graceful, were suddenly not. She stomped heavily—loudly down the only hallway that was in the house. I knew it led to a small bathroom on the right-hand side, and I could only assume that her bedroom was in the same vicinity down that hall.

"G'night, Jay," she called back to me with a not-so-gentle wave of her hand, and she disappeared into a door on the left.

Though she hadn't said I could use it, I helped myself to her couch. It was sat in the living area next to the front door, just before the kitchen. In front of a large, black, cast-iron fireplace, the brown couch called to me, and I sprawled across it. The memory of my bumbling steps toward my sleeping arrangements was lost to the liquor, but the thoughts that remained in my mind that night were not.

They were loud. Belligerent. They screamed at me to follow her—to join her in her bed, embrace her from behind, and allow us both to settle into the contentment of another's arms. To wake in several hours having not moved an inch and, behind the veil of a hangover, feel each other's bodies and distract ourselves with ecstasy. To drown out the noise in our minds by listening instead to the newfound sounds that either one of us made in the throes of passion.

My mind reeled with the thought, and she was so close that I could taste it—but even heavily under the influence, I knew that the choice would have been a poor one.

I left before she could wake the next morning, tip-toeing over the tile and closing my car's door so softly that I didn't even hear it click shut.

The memory was real—colorful and full of life despite the reminder of the event being somber. And I had no idea what spurred it. It had left me breathless, my chest tight with the feeling of longing that I had experienced months ago whilst in mental turmoil.

I attempted to shiver it away, but it remained. It, along with the sight of the man we had disposed of, lingered in my brain, forcing anxiety to drip over me and trail down my spine. My back arched at the sensation as I cringed away from it, and I stood from my bed with a groan.

I paced the apartment. Chugged a glass of water. Took not one but two showers—one hot and one cold—neither helped. No matter what I tried, the sensation hovered over me, and it stayed until it was time for me to ready myself for work. I did so slowly, allowing my routine to busy my mind as much as it possibly could. I cranked the radio as I drove, focusing on the lyrics of the songs and the rambling drivel of the commercials.

It was my work that allowed me to truly distract myself, though, and I had never been more thankful to see businesses in financial ruin via poorly invested stocks. I dove into it, took a short lunch, and worked late.

I most likely would have worked late regardless of my state of mind, though, because it was Friday. The day that I had agreed to go out with Shawn. I was told the establishment we were planning on visiting was only a stone's throw away from work, so I buckled down until 8:00, input the directions in the map app on my phone , and drove.

I eventually sat in my car, parked in the lot outside, taking in the view of the front. It was busy— so busy that I had struggled to even find a place to park. The building was nothing special, really. It looked like all the others in this area of the city—grey and single-storied. The only thing that made it stand out from the rest was the large, neon-red lighting that displayed the name in all caps right above the door:

GAS LAM P

Shawn stood with Tommy in waiting to the right of the entrance, and I grumbled as I began to make my way to them. I had met Tommy earlier in the day. Though seemingly fine while I had introduced myself, I couldn't help but notice his appearance—blonde hair that seemed to be styled with so much product, I could almost hear it crunch as he turned his head. A smile so unnaturally white, you would think he were a walking commercial for brightening strips. With the way that he spoke with several bro's and chill's interlaced into his sentences, I wondered if he were a part of a fraternity in college. If so, the persona had most certainly stuck to him like glue. He wore wraparound sunglasses with a blueish-tinted mirror finish, and I grimaced at the sight.

"Tats?" Tommy's obscured gaze trailed over my arms. The night was less chilly than anticipated, and I had rolled the long sleeves that I typically wear for work up to my forearms. "Nice, bro —lose the glasses if you wanna get laid."

I squinted at him. "Yeah, I don't anticipate meeting someone here."

"Are we ready, then?" Tommy ignored my notion, questioning me and Shawn with a wide grin on his face.

"Ah—yeah, ready," Shawn replied.

"What are those? "

I pointed to Tommy's face. Not toward his teeth; I wasn't that much of an asshole—to his eyewear.

He gestured to them with a wave of his hand. "These? Oakley's, man!"

"The sun has set," I reminded him bluntly, looking toward the night sky.

"It's an accessory," he told me offhandedly.

I retorted, "Mmkay, well, that accessory is making you legally blind, considering that it's night time and we're going to be inside."

Tommy's blonde brows bobbled up and down, and he tilted his head downward to peek at me from behind the frames. "Well, I'll be able to feel plenty."

I fucking hate this guy.

I scoffed. "What, are you gonna grope the dancers as if you're trying to read fucking braille?"

Shawn interjected, "Jay—"

I held up a hand in his direction, an index finger and thumb pressed dangerously close together. "This close to abandoning ship, Brooks."

Shawn held up one finger. "You promised me at least one beer's worth of time."

"Yeah, man, chill—you gotta at least get a few dances," Tommy spoke .

I stared at Shawn, muttering, "Is this a test of my patience?"

Tommy chuckled, my annoyance a thorough amusement for him. The noise grated on my ears.

Shawn returned to me, "Okay, come on," as he patted me between my shoulder blades. "Let's go."

I whispered, "You owe me."

"Uh huh," Shawn replied instantly as we walked on. "I'm gathering that already."

A sign by the front door announced that it was Cosmic Night. The lights were dim in the club, and there were blacklights abound. Loud music blared overhead, and the girls wore glow-in-the-dark, strappy getups that shined to show off their greatest assets. We shouldered through what had to have been hundreds of men to find open seats, came across a few closer to the back of the club, and sat. The seating was booth-like in nature, curved, and arranged around a raised, circular stage. I watched the dancers warily as they wandered around us, every so often rotating the woman before us. I declined dances, shrugged away from suggestive grazes of women's touches on my shoulders, and sipped at the ten-dollar beer that I had purchased as I wondered how a bunch of thirty-something-year-old men sitting around watching each other get blue-balled was supposed to be entertaining .

After what was my one beer's worth of time, Tommy nearly shouted, "Yo, can someone buy Turner a dance already?"

I intended to tell him to shut the fuck up, but my words just…left me. My mind turned numb. I closed my mouth, for it had fallen open.

She was long legs and strappy heels. Her athletic body was barely covered by a string bikini that glowed bright green. Straight, dark hair hung down to her waist, and her makeup had flecks of luminescence along her cheeks that simulated freckles—the shining freckles continued down her abdomen, all over her arms and thighs, and it forced me to wonder if the beauty marks would exist underneath the makeup. A thin line of eyeliner made from the same glowing material was shining on her upper lids, and the small piercing in her navel was in a similar neon color.

Fuck. Cassie.

Even in the dark of the blacklights, I could tell that it was her. I struggled to gather my thoughts—to recall conversations that I had listened to over the past few months. She had said she was an accountant… right? An accountant who works at a call center with graveyard hours. Not an exotic dancer— I would have fucking remembered that.

I tore my eyes away from her, and Shawn elbowed me.

"Her. Get a dance from her. "

"I—what?" I stammered in an oddly high pitch. "No, no. I can't."

"Saw you lookin', Jay," he noted as he wiggled his thick brows. "C'mon. She's cute."

I exhaled heavily. Apparently, while the remainder of my close-knit group had thankfully mistaken my feelings for Cassie to be ones of distaste, Shawn saw right through me in one glance. No one else had ever witnessed me seeing Cassie half-naked for the first time either, though, so I ushered away the consideration that Shawn was a telepath.

"Brooks…"

I began to put together some sort of an explanation, but my words fell short. I didn't know what they were going to be in the first place—I would have figured something out eventually, I always do—but I didn't get the chance. Cassie was making her way toward us, I was thoroughly considering getting up and escaping through the back door, and Tommy reached out an arm to halt her steps.

And the room turned green. Not literally, of course, but the oh-so-familiar feeling of jealousy crept up my spine and forced me to sit up straight. I wanted to tell him not to fucking look at her. To not grab her hand and hold it— like he was currently fucking doing. And to not, for the love of God, ask her for a dance.

"Hi," Tommy spoke, and she looked down at him with a dazzling smile. "Hi there," he repeated, cash in hand extended to her. "You are gorgeous. Can I get a—"

"Oh, thanks, man." The words were out of my mouth before I could even stop them, and Tommy's head turned in my direction. I remarked to her, "He wanted to buy me a dance."

Cassie finally caught my eye, and her brows shot up into oblivion. The look was the embodiment of surprise—it was just as good as if she were to have stumbled backward on her stilettos, fell on her ass, and clutched at her metaphorical pearls in shock. She looked me up and down—thoroughly, I assumed, to ensure that I was, in fact, who she thought I was—and I offered her a smile that pulled up half of my lips. The look of pure shock fell off of her face, and I saw her shoulders slump down as she appeared to let out a long breath.

It was a moment shared only between us that lasted a split second.

"You want a dance?" she asked with an upward inflection.

What am I doing?

"Yeah," I replied with a nod.

Okay, seriously, what the fuck am I doing?