If it never got in the way of my life, what did it matter that I put bourbon in my cold brew or stayed at parties until the last bottle was empty?
What did it matter that I numbed all the bad shit? It's my liver, isn't it?
Then… bam—
One stupid decision and suddenly everyone is entitled to their judgment. Suddenly everyone is right.
Suddenly, I'm Oliver, the alcoholic, the guy with a problem.
Suddenly, the state of California wants to get on board with the accusations.
The state didn't force me to do shit. But it wasn't much of a choice.
Jail time or attend a three-hour-a-week, ten-week class on "alcohol education."
Maybe I should have picked the jail time.
At least it would have been over fast.
I roll onto my back. Toss my blankets aside. Open the window. It's freezing outside—the temperature swings wildly between afternoon and night in October through May—but it's still too stuffy in here.
And I'm still wound tighter than a drum.
It's too late for coffee. I'm too tired to work. The gym isn't even open.
Which leaves sex.
Do I have shit left? I'm not sure.
I can't go there. The second I close my eyes, I think of Luna.
That self-destructive part of my brain.
Maybe I have a problem. But it's not the alcohol. The alcohol is the fucking solution.
It's this.
That match that will burn the only bridge that matters—
No, the Molotov cocktail that will burn the only bridge that matters is right there.
And it's shiny and new and beautiful.
And so fucking appealing.
Six more weeks. Then I can move out. Find some way to explain it to Daisy.
Do something, anything that won't fuck things up more.
Not this.
Anything but this.
The upside of insomnia—
I'm awake before the rest of the house. I wash my hands, brush my teeth, throw on my gym shorts.
Run to a particularly miserable Bad Religion album. It's cloudy this early. We're a solid half a mile from the beach, but we still get the morning clouds.
I run in the direction of the Pacific. The air gets cooler. The smell of salt mingles with the scent of gasoline.
Mmm, Southern California, so many charms. And expensive as fuck too. It's home, yeah, but if I want to move out, I need to get smart.
Living rent free is a pretty sweet deal. Especially in this part of town.
I'm good at my job, but it's not exactly investment banking. I don't have one-bedroom-near-the-beach money.
Studio next to the freeway… maybe.
I contemplate the matter as I run along the boardwalk. This time of year, this early in the morning, it's all locals. Women in yoga pants jogging before work. Kids on bikes. Teens on skateboards.
Light sky, beige sand, miles and miles of deep blue ocean. It is beautiful. Objectively speaking. If there is such a thing.
The Pacific Ocean. The Western coast of the United States. The sea that spans half a globe.
The water I see every damn day.
I guess it's not the same water. I move onto the sand. For more resistance. Whatever it takes to annihilate my thoughts.
A wave breaks. The water recedes into the mass of ocean.
It no longer exists in that form.
It returns to the Pacific. Still water, still there, but no longer its own entity.
Is that the inspiring part? Or is it something else entirely?
It's a nice thought, the ability to shift shapes, to smooth sand, to find the path of least resistance.
Then there's the raw power of the ocean. Hurricanes, tsunamis, summer storms.
All that force daring people to fuck with it.
I make a mental note to work on a mock-up of a wave. Something different. New. Interesting.
A mermaid maybe. A Disney riff.
Daisy watched The Little Mermaid all the time when she was a kid. She always admired Ariel for her curiosity, her drive, her sense of wonder.
How does she do that? Find all this beauty in the world? So much she's willing to part with her fucking voice?
I mean, yeah, if I had the choice between speaking and fucking, I'd choose the latter too.
But it's more than that.
It stays in my head as I run home. Fix a dark roast. Drink two cups.
Until Luna trots down the stairs. "I smell coffee." She rubs her eyes. Brushes her messy hair behind her ear. "Please tell me there's coffee."
"I made extra, yeah." I pour her a cup.
She moves across the room, her grey eyes half open, her arms stretching over her head in a yawn. "Are you always up this early?"
Lately, yeah. "Are you?"
"I got used to sleeping in all summer. But my body remembers six a.m. practices come September. Four years do that, I guess." She sticks out her tongue ugh. "At least the college ones are in the afternoon. If I never wake up before the sunrise it will be too soon."
I offer her the mug. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. It's nothing. A gesture I've repeated a million times.
But it's fucking electric.
She inhales the coffee. Lets out a deep sigh. One that's all pleasure. It spreads over her expression. Her brow softens. Her lips part.
My cock whines.
Not the time. Not the pants. I turn to the stove. Wish I didn't. The world dulls instantly.
I grab a pan. Turn on the burner. "You want eggs?"
"With garlic and red pepper? Uh, yes."
"Bossy."
"You love it." She smiles. A big, full smile that lights up her gorgeous face. "Thank you, Ollie."
"Sure." I watch her sit at the table. Groan over the coffee. Lose her joy as she pulls her cell from her pajama bottoms.
Is this really the only thing that thrills me now? My sister's best friend?
Maybe I can work with that. Maybe I can be her friend, period, the end.
It's possible to hang out with her without touching her.
No matter how much my cock protests.
Chapter Seven
Oliver
"You look thirsty." Holden saunters into the shop like he owns the place. He stretches his arms over his head. Lets out a yawn. "Real thirsty."
"Ignore him," Forest calls from his suite. It's with his usual I cannot be bothered to deal with Holden's bullshit tone.
After Chase, he's the oldest guy at the shop. The most experienced.
He's also Holden's older brother. He knows attention feeds Holden's shit-stirring.
So after an eye roll, he returns to his mock-up. An intense In Memoriam. Roses around a tombstone. Pain turned into beauty. Or maybe it's pain turned into more pain.
"I always do." I'm at the spot behind the counter. Alternating between staring at a mock-up and staring at the bright sky.
It's a slow day. I'm between appointments.
I used to savor this time. What's better than shooting the shit with friends? Even if I'm not usually the one doing most of the talking.
But now?
Waiting is a lot less fun without a buzz. Especially when you don't want to talk to any of your friends.
"You know you love it." Holden moves to the counter with those bouncy steps of his. He places his hands on the slick surface. Glances at my mock-up. Then at me. "An ode to your dick?"