Surely, he would’ve cleaned up after himself. His place seemed tidy. His warehouse was paint-speckled, but his equipment was clean and put away after use.
“Are you here, Gil?” I strode toward the bathroom. The longer I stayed, the more uncomfortable I became. What was I thinking breaking into his place? Why did I think I’d have better luck finding him over Justin who’d been part of his life for the past year?
Ego.
That’s what this is.
I thought I’d find him because there was something unexplainable between us. Because every word he gave me, no matter how harsh, begged me to keep coming back.
The rainforest mural glittered in the glow of a single lamp, this time I spied an owl on fern branches, a symbol of me—just like my tattoo was a symbol of him.
He’d never forgotten me. Never stopped wanting me.
“Gil?” My chest hurt as I turned, taking in the space.
A soft snick of a door opening behind me made me spin around at super speed.
My hand flew to my throat as Gil tripped out of one of the rooms hidden in the graffiti rainforest I’d just admired.
No lights illuminated behind him. I couldn’t see into the space he’d just vacated, but the faint whiff of strawberry followed him.
My insides tangled.
Strawberry.
Like in his bathroom yesterday.
I backed up as Gil turned around and closed the door. He locked it with a key that vanished into his pocket a moment later. He didn’t turn to face me; he didn’t show any sign of realising I was there.
Pressing his forehead against the door, his hand stayed glued to the handle as if he couldn’t face life outside the room.
My heart physically ached to touch him. To do something, anything, to eradicate the sorrow cloaking his shoulders.
I was trapped.
I’d found him, but I wasn’t meant to see this.
I wanted to vanish, but if I moved, he’d notice me.
I had no idea what to do, so I just stood there, blushing and afraid as he inhaled a shaky breath and turned slowly.
It took him longer to move than normal, his senses dulled and reactions compromised. His gaze fixated on a mostly empty vodka bottle on the kitchen countertop. He made to move toward it, his eyes hazy and body loose from drinking.
But then, he froze.
His head whipped to me, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “Olin.”
His eyes shot to the door behind him as if afraid of what I’d seen. “How shlong have you been standing...there?” His voice dripped with alcohol.
He swayed; his face shadowed with fury.
Out of everything that could’ve happened tonight, seeing Gil drunk was the hardest.
Not because I feared he’d be violent and a threat to my safety but because of the many moonlight conversations we’d had about his father’s drinking.
He’d been fiercely adamant he would never drink like him. The smell and taste of liquor repulsed him. He never wanted to ruin his life with a bottle.
Yet seven years later, he was slurring and swaying before me.
“Gil...what happened?”
He stumbled to the side, shaking his head as if trying to eradicate the drunkenness he swam in. “You’re not meant to be here.”
“You told me to come, remember? You were going to paint me.”
“Ah...” His eyes unfocused as something brutal and damaging cast over his features. His breath hitched in such a helpless way, tears confiscated my vision. “It’s too late.”
I rubbed at the liquid in my gaze. “What’s too late?”
“Everything.” His face tried to settle on furious but just kept melting back into grief. His jeans and grey hoodie were grass stained and muddy. An area by his elbow was torn while blood marked the neckline. Green, taupe, and black paint speckled his skin.
Needing to touch him. Crippling with the need to soothe, I dashed forward and wound my fingers with his.
I couldn’t not touch him. I couldn’t not care. “Gil...what’s going on? Where have you been? You’re hurt. You’re filthy.”
Yanking his fingers from mine, he groaned, “Get out.”
“I can’t.”
“Go.”
“I’m staying.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Leave.”
We’d had this conversation far too many times. I should honour his wishes. This was his place. There was no law about drinking alone.
But...
But.
“I’m not leaving. No matter what you say or do, I’m not going anywhere. Not while you’re like this.”
“Like what?” His eyes clung to mine, icy green winter.
Dirty.
Hurt.
“Drunk.”
“What I do or don’t do is none of your conshern.”
“It is when I know this isn’t you.”
“You don’t know me.” He stormed off, beelining for the kitchen as a thread of strawberry scent followed him, along with a trail of mud from his boots. “If you knew me, you’d run from me.” His voice thickened. “You should run. Please, God. Run.”
I balled my hands and chased. “I’m not running, Gil. I’m going to help you.”
“You can’t.”
“Let me try.”
He reached for the vodka bottle, but I beat him to it.
“Don’t.” I held it out of arm’s reach. “Alcohol can’t cure your problems.”
His face twisted. “But it can drown out the pain.”
“No,” I said sadly. “It only amplifies it when it wears off.”
“The reprieve is shworth it.” He swayed as he pounced on me, pressing me against the kitchen bench, trying to reach the bottle behind my back.
I sucked in a breath as the air crackled like it always did when we touched.
He stiffened.
The outside world vanished.
His focus slipped from the bottle to my lips in a heartbeat, imprisoning me in a different type of hell.
I stopped breathing as his gaze darkened, hiding any vulnerabilities and secrets, turning him into an angry, intoxicated stranger.
A stranger whose nostrils flared and hands landed on either side of my hips, trapping me all while his body pressed indecently into mine.
“Gil...”
“Don’t.” He shook his head fast, his lips twisting into a grimace.
I shivered as he ducked his head and nuzzled his nose against my neck. The way we fit together, the way he knew instinctually what made me come apart said we’d done this a thousand times. As if it was acceptable, normal, real.
The bottle clattered out of my fingers, banging against the tile and spilling its crystal liquor around our feet.
Gil didn’t stop.
His fingers dug into my hipbones, yanking me into him. His teeth grazed my neck, and the world erupted in fire.
I moaned as he bit me.
I melted as his tongue licked my neck and his hips thrust hard into mine.
“Fuck, O...” His tongue became his lips, kissing me, decorating me in nips and worship as he worked his way from my throat to my collarbone. I shuddered as he unsheathed his teeth and bit me harder, making me liquefy.
My hands landed in his hair, sinking deep.
He wasn’t the only one drunk.
Suddenly, my brain swam. My mind shut down. My very chemical makeup drugged me.
I should push him away and run.