Chapter 8

Eight

Josh

E zra chugs from the flask. His left hand is propped on his bare knee, palm up. There’s blood on his knee now. I can’t help the way my gaze moves to his tanned throat as he gulps the liquor down. I’m distracted by Brennan, who crouches on the outside of Ezra’s left leg and arches his brows at me.

Okay. We can do this.

I’m not sure where to put myself except between his spread legs. I’m on my knees between them, so close I can feel the heat of his skin as I move in, but I can't see his face because he's still got the flask up near his mouth. Damn—he’s stoic, but it must hurt; his whole body's shaking just a little.

"Ever passed out?" I ask. He answers with a grunt that I think means "no."

"Bren, you think you can get a grip on it from down at the base?"

Ezra holds his trembling hand up slightly for us, and I catch a whiff of liquor in the warm breeze. He tips his head back. Takes a deep breath. As Brennan takes Ezra’s hand in both of his, Ezra’s right hand grips his knee, fingertips pinching the hem of his shorts.

I want to reassure him, to tell him it’ll be over in a second, but I stop myself. Because he’s an asshole. We’re not friends.

Brennan passes me the pliers. I need to snip the hooks as close to the tip of his finger as I can, before Brennan pulls. I swallow before taking Ezra’s thick, squared wrist in one of my hands and turning the hand over, looking at the palm side of it.

“Hold it sideways, Ezra. If you have to, hold onto your wrist to keep it still. And don’t look.”

To Brennan, I say, "Tell me if your grip is good. If it is, I'm gonna put some pressure on the top, straighten them out a little, so it’s easier to…”

Bren nods. I wrap my hand partway around Ezra’s sweat-damp forearm and look up at him. He's gone pale as fuck, and one of his eyes is squinted in a way that looks a little like a wince, but otherwise his face is carefully blank. He clenches his jaw as his eyes meet mine.

"I'm going to straighten the bendy parts so that it's easier to come out. It might pull a little. Then I'll grip your hand from the side, and Bren will get it out fast." My voice wobbles slightly on those last words, and the asshole somehow smirks, looking looser around the eyes, like the liquor is getting to his head now.

"Feelin’ emotional, DG?" His lip curls for a second as his eyelids drop shut, and yeah—I'm pretty sure he's feeling the liquor.

I wait for his eyes to open again so I can tell him to fuck off, but they stay shut as his face relaxes, and I realize he's bracing.

"What was in that thing?" I murmur to Bren.

He grins smugly. "Jim Beam."

I move my fingers so they're touching the base of Ezra's palm. "You ready?"

I feel him nod.

"Shut your eyes, man," Brennan tells him.

"I can't." His voice is tight. Ezra looks off to his right, and I tell Brennan, "Grip it."

He gets his fingertips around the hook’s base. I feel Ezra's legs flex.

"Got it," Brennan says.

"Good?" I murmur.

He nods. "Do it."

With two fingers gripping the middle knuckle of Ezra's finger, I situate the pliers how they need to be on one of the hooks, bending upward a little and then releasing. I clip the thing as clean as I can, and Ezra lets out a loud breath. I feel his left leg tremble as I repeat on the hook’s other prong.

"Almost done," I whisper.

I clip the hook. Brennan meets my eyes to say he’s ready, and I hold Ezra’s hand in place as tight as I can.

Brennan starts to pull the hook out. Ezra’s hand shakes as he does it, which forces Bren to re-grip the hook when it’s halfway out and blood is dripping all down Ezra’s hand. Ezra’s body jerks—and then it’s out.

He draws the hand up to his chest and makes this soft noise in his throat that makes my stomach go all topsy turvy.

"Got a Band-Aid?"he asks quietly.

Brennan gives a low laugh. The finger is dripping way too fast for just a Band-Aid.

"Can I see?" I ask him.

Ezra leans back, his shoulders drawn up like he doesn't want me too close.

"It's okay." I stand up on knees that wobble. "Let's go home. I'm driving."

His eyes open. "You don’t have to. I can just—"

"Naw, man!" Marcel is back in the game. He’s got a hand held up to block Ezra’s hand from his view. "Go home, boy. Let your mama—Miller’smama—patch that shit up. That or get your ass to the hospital, have it sewed shut."

"What's going on?" My dad arrives on the scene looking confused. "Oh no," he says, frowning deeply.

"It was my fault." Brennan sighs. "I gave him that long pole I use on the pier."

Ezra stands up, holding his arm to his chest as blood drips onto the dock. "It's okay." He gives Bren a weak smile. It's small and strained, and I'm surprised he's putting in the effort. "Screwed up getting bait on the hook. Hand was sweaty, just slipped."

"Go with Josh,” my dad says in a reassuring, fatherly tone. “He’ll get you some antibiotic cream and gauze and all that. Go on, Josh." My dad waves at the lawn.

I nod, and start walking. I’m surprised when Ezra follows.

“It’s okay,” he says, when we’re a little ways away from everybody. The words are thick, and his eyes look heavy-lidded. Gotta figure he’s still half-drunk off all that bourbon.

“Is it?”

He nods.

I’m painfully aware of everything about him as we walk across the lawn. How his strides are slightly longer than mine. The way his hat presses that surfer flop of hair into his eyes as he walks with his shoulders slightly drawn in. He’s still got his arm folded to his chest, the good hand curved around it protectively.

“Can I see?”

After a second, he holds the hand out. I get a good view of the pad of his finger, marred by two deep, vertical gashes. Both of them are still oozing.

"Fuck, man. I think that needs stitches."

He laughs. It’s a low, rough sound that I feel in my stomach. "Like hell it does."

"It could get infected pretty easily. If we poured alcohol on it or something, like to sanitize, that would fucking kill . "

"Nah. Do it." He smiles, crooked, and time trips on its seconds. His sharp-boned face is all bourbon and irreverence.

"You say that because you're drunk."

He grins, looking looser than I’ve ever seen him. Almost like a normal person. "Hit me when it won't hurt, DG. Pour it on. It'll quit stinging. Then it's over."

"You’re gonna piss yourself," I mutter.

"That what you'd do?" He smirk-smiles again.

"Always gotta be a dick."

"I'm not a dick." His eyes have almost shut. Those soft lips—his whole damn, weird, avenging angel face—is gorgeous, even pale and drunk and sweaty.

We’re at the open mouth of the garage. I wave him in. “Be my guest. I know Dad’s got alcohol up in there.”

When he walks into the garage—a lion in a coffee shop—he holds the finger up, reminding me it’s bleeding.

“Ah.” I grab a Shrek beach towel from a basket on one of the shelves and hand it to him. “Blood doesn’t matter on the towel. That one’s mine.”

I can’t look at him as I open the door from garage to laundry room. Somehow, something’s thrown off—like a record with a scratch, things keep on skipping. I fill my lungs with the first deep breath I’ve taken in the last half hour. When I glance over my shoulder, I find him looking slightly dreamy.

“What does DG mean?” I ask on a whim. If he’s going to stand in Dad’s laundry room obviously drunk, I should take advantage.

His lips twitch upward at the corners. “It means Do Gooder.”

“Why am I a do gooder?”

His smile fades. “You know why.” I see him swallow. He looks down at his hand, and I say, “Take off your shoes. Please.”

They’re black Nikes—the running kind. He toes them off and looks at me, his face unreadable. Maybe a little thoughtful.

“Whatcha thinking about, AA?” I say.

His brows draw together, the look skeptical—but still drunk. “ You think you wouldn’t be drunk off that twenty-ounce flask?” he asks with a huff of a laugh.

That makes me laugh, because it really was a huge flask.

“That’s not what AA means.” I lead him through the dining room and living room and to the stairs, which lead to my loft. “Wait a second.”

Ezra blinks, and I leave him standing there while I hurry into the kitchen for some first aid stuff.

I return to find him leaning one of his shoulders against the wall, looking tired and blond and faintly badass, with the blood and his black shirt, his ball cap tucked into the waistband of his shorts. His arms are tanned more darkly now. So is his throat, and those cheekbones.

“You’re staring.” It sounds husky.

“You’re being an AA.”

“Lemme guess,” he says as I lead the way up. “Second word or maybe the first word is asshole.”

I’m pleased to tell him, “Nope.”

I step up into the loft, holding his gaze as he follows. I watch him frown around the space, his eyes zeroing in on the twin bed. “Is this a bedroom?”

“Study-bedroom.”

“You come here to study?”

“No, dude. It’s my dad’s study. When I’m here, I use it as a bedroom.”

“That’d be what we call a study.” His dark brows pinch. “Is your dad an asshole?”

“What? No.”

His lips stretch into a big, drunk grin. He holds a finger out, his right hand in a gun-like shape. “You’re a liar, DG.”

“Did he seem like an asshole?” I try.

“Maybe,” he says.

I scoff. “Why?” Actually, we shouldn’t go there. I wave at the bed. “Sit down. You’re gonna hold the towel in your lap and I’ll pour a capful of alcohol or maybe peroxide on that thing. I don’t know which one yet. Need to consult Dr. Google.”

“Just throw some alcohol on it. I know it’ll hurt. But then it’ll be over,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Then it’ll be over? I mean, at some point everything will be over. What matters is how much it hurts first.”

He leans back on his good arm, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Disagree.”

How does he disagree, I wonder as I set the first aid kit on the duvet beside him. Does he not mind pain? Or is he saying everything hurts, which is why his focus is on the fact that it will, at some point, all be over? Is the angry angel a nihilist?

I mock myself internally as I line up the rubbing alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and some gauze plus gauze tape. Angry angel. It’s a stupid nickname, but he’ll never know. Besides, he really does look like some kind of angel sent to level cities or some shit. Bonus points that the anacronym is “AA.”

I glance up, finding his eyes on me. He looks serious, those dark brows notched again. There’s a little wrinkle in his forehead.

“What’re you looking at?” I scoff.

“You.” Ezra’s eyes narrow like he’s thinking about something, but he offers nothing more.

I tell myself not to ask, “What about me?” I would be walking right into his bullshit.

Instead I say, “Let’s do this fast. Before the bourbon wears off.”

He turns his hand palm up. As he does, I notice something on the back of it.

“Turn it back over.”

He hesitates a second but he does it, giving me a second look at—

“Chicken pox,” he says.

Right under his middle finger’s bottom knuckle, there’s a bunch of small, circular scars—the smallest ones no bigger than a fine-print Sharpie’s tip, the biggest ones no larger than a pencil eraser. All the dots are right over one of his veins. His hands have a lot of veins, I notice. They’re all popped out right now, probably because he’s hot from being outside.

“That hand had a lot of them. I don’t know why,” he offers.

He shows me his other hand—his throwing hand. There’s some in the same spot on it.

“Weird.”

He shrugs. He holds his left hand up. “Do it.”

“You wanna lay down, so when it hurts like shit, you can roll around and moan and all that?” I’m just teasing.

He frowns down his nose at me. “I’m not gonna moan, Do Gooder. And it’s lie .”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. You a grammar geek?”

“No, but I do know grammar.”

I snort, but then I’m smirking at how grumpy he looks. He would be a grumpy drunk. “You learn that fancy stuff up at your fancy private school?”

His face hardens. “No.” He inhales deeply, exhales, and says, “Well.” There’s a note of impatience in his voice, and I feel bad for not getting to it sooner. He’s probably nervous.

“By the way, you really can lie down if you want.”

He blinks, his face expressionless, and I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

He inhales deeply again, and I say, “Okay,” and squirt some alcohol on the wound. His whole body jerks, and his eyes shut. He sucks air in through his nose, but he doesn’t moan, just like he said he wouldn’t.

A second later, he opens his eyes and says, “Finish it up, DG. I’m good.”

He’s breathing a little too fast as I put the ointment on and wrap it up. I wrap the whole finger with gauze, and then around the width of his palm, hoping that’ll keep it in place. When I glance back up, he looks drained .

I wonder how relaxed he is with Bren and Marcel. How much he still feels like the new guy. I think about his ears going red when Dad talked to him. It doesn’t seem like him to be uncomfortable with praise, but I guess I don’t know him.

“I’ve gotta go downstairs and grab a few things,” I say. “Lie down, Grammar Lord, so I won’t worry that you’re snooping through my shit. Also—” I just remembered I’ve got a little bottle of scotch that Dad and Kaye bought me when they went to Scotland. Never figured I would open it—more like a keepsake—but I grab it off a bookshelf and hand it to him.

“Lie down and try some of this Scottish glacier water shit.”

I don’t look behind me till I’m almost to the loft stairs. When I do, he’s scooting toward the headboard. I find him in that same place almost ten minutes later—leaning back against the pillows with his eyes barely open.

I smile—because that’s who I am. It’s my default. He gives me a sort-of glare.

“Did you drink my scotch?”

He holds up the bottle: full. I wait for him to tell me why, but when he doesn’t, I just take the thing and set it back on the shelf.

“Ready to go?” I ask as I do. By the time I turn around, he’s already on his feet. He looks unhappy.

“Sorry I left you up here for a second.”

“You sorry for fixing my hand, too?”

I quirk a brow up at him. “I don’t get it.”

He gives me an eyeroll and waves at the stairs, like he’s telling me to go down. We leave the house quietly, and I don’t realize till we’re both in my car that I didn’t offer him water or Advil.

“Hang on.” I hop out of the car to grab a water from the garage fridge, while calling dad on my cell phone to let him know we’re leaving.

I hand AA the water, admitting to myself as I put the car in reverse that he’s not weird looking like I thought when I first saw him. Not really. He’s not even just striking. He’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen in real life, and I hate it.

I hate that I feel uncomfortable around him. How my heart pounds and my hands sweat. And I hate it all the more because he’s him . Because he’s a rude, irreverent prick who’s probably a homophobe. Because he seems to think I’m lame. Because he lives at my house. I can never get away from this. What I hate the most is that I care. I don’t even know why.

It feels like forever that I’m driving back toward Mom’s house with his bloodstained left knee in the blur of my periphery. Trying to keep my damn eyes on the road and off of him . I’m not sure if he moves or how he breathes or anything, because it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to worry over him. He’s not my brother.

Finally, we’re almost home, and his low, rough voice breaks the silence. “Ever get called Millsy?”

“What?”

He’s smirking, looking loose and somewhat leery, somehow even drunker than before.

“Why would I?”

“Miller is wrong.” He leans his head against his headrest, shutting his eyes. He’s frowning thoughtfully, and then he peeks one eye open to look at me. “Millsy is more a fit.”

“Am I supposed to take this as an insult?”

His lips curl before he reverts to his smug and smirky standard. “No.” Then he adds, “Maybe.”

Now he’s definitely smirking. Fuck—why do I hate it so much? I feel like he’s mocking me.

“No one’s gonna call me Millsy,” I say.

I pull into the driveway, and he opens his eyes. His smirk blooms into a grin, and he sits up in his seat. “I am.”