Chapter 63
SIXTY-THREE
Make Believe - Memphis May Fire
Dakota’s spinning out. I see it in his heavy breathing and tense body. He’s so pale that he looks sickly.
Maybe he and I can escape together. Surely, two cops are both enough to take on Logan.
But even at the thought, I feel something inside me crumbling. Take Logan on, and then what? Go where? Plus, my stomach is doing some weird, guilty twist just thinking about beating Logan’s ass.
The drink in my hand is both killing me and giving me life. The first sip felt like heaven and hell at the same time. Fuck, at this point, I don’t even want the buzz. I just want to feel better.
To feel better? Or to stop feeling?
I glance back down at the hot man on the ground in front of me. The man who brought me what he knew I wanted, even if it put him at risk.
Why? There has to be a reason. I stare at him and realize that I don’t really know Dakota very well. Logan and I just barged into his life and made ourselves at home. Dakota has been shy and quiet and…fucking sexy. Sure, he’s naive, but I also…like that about him? It reminds me of a time when I also believed cops were the good guys and saved the world.
To feel better, or to stop feeling? As I stare at the bottle, I realize the feel-nothing option is going to kill me. One way or another, whether it’s through alcohol poisoning or a run-in with the cops.
I’m just scared of the feel-better option. I know there’s going to be a lot of shit I have to go through before I get there. And that shit might kill me too.
Dakota’s rubbing his temples now, and there is a little crease between his eyebrows. Then, so quietly I can barely hear it, he mutters, “Will it get better?”
“What?” I stare at him.
“The killing. Does it get easier?” Dakota refuses to look at me. Just picks at a piece of skin around his nail.
I swallow harshly. No. It doesn’t ever get better. Somehow, killing solves everything and nothing at the same time.
Instead of answering, I just slowly offer Dakota the bottle.
He looks up at me, fatigue turning to surprise.
“Just a sip,” I say. We can share. He’s joined our ranks, so he needs it almost as much as I do.
Dakota hesitates for a second longer, then reaches up and grabs the bottle. For a second, I hesitate. What if he doesn’t give it back? What if I lose my last grip of control?
So what if I do? I’ve already lost it anyway.
And so, I let go.
Dakota watches me silently. Then, slowly, he takes a sip. It’s just a sip, and I watch with excruciating closeness. Then, he hands the bottle back.
“Tastes like shit.” Dakota winces, coughing a little.
I just stare at him for a second, then slowly, I chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah it does.”
“I can’t believe I used to like that shit.” He shakes his head.
I take another swig, then hand the bottle back to him. Dakota hesitates once again. “Uh, it’s okay, man.”
“No, if you drugged it, you get to go down with me.” I say it like it’s a joke. But in reality, I can see the struggle in Dakota. Which I’m sure I’m partially responsible for. And some part of me doesn’t like seeing the pain on his pretty face.
Dakota takes it, taking another drink. He hands it back, and I sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s your drink of choice?”
Dakota huffs. “Probably wine.”
Yep. Seems pretty gay to me. I just stifle a snort.
“What?”
Dakota is watching me. Apparently, I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.
I shrug. “Well, I don’t know. That’s kind of the girliest drink you could pick.”
“Drinks aren’t inherently feminine or masculine.” Dakota frowns at me.
“Big words there, freckles.” I take a drink.
He frowns. “I mean that it’s not girly or manly to pick a certain drink. Drinks don’t have genders.”
I pull in a breath. Sure they do. But the more I think about it, the more I suppose he’s right. Like hell if I’ll ever admit that, though. “Whatever.” I stare at the last swallow of cinnamon whiskey in the bottle. I can’t tell if I feel better because of the alcohol or the placebo effect.
“You take it.” Dakota grunts as he moves to stand, stretching. “Fuck, that floor is hard.”
Taking the last sip, I grunt as my arm is jostled from the side, spilling the last bit of the drink.
“Fuck! S-s-s–” Dakota stares at me as he rights himself, surprise in his gaze. Then, that surprise changes to fear. “Sorry.”
My first reaction is anger, then I force myself to slow down. He bumped into me by accident. If anything, I should be mad at myself. This shit is poison.
“S-s-s-orry,” Dakota says again. “I’ll get you a towel.” He darts to the bathroom, and I tilt the bottle up to get the last drop. Then Dakota comes out again, stammering with a wet towel.
“It’s okay.” I don’t like the look in his eye. It looks like he thinks I’m going to hit him or some shit. “Dakota, it’s fine.”
“No, s-s-s-s-s-” he gets so hung up on the word it twists something in my chest. I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Dakota. It’s okay. It’s fine.”
Slowly, the ring around his golden eyes goes down, and for some reason, the stress inside me does as well. He’s so close, and his breath is whispering across my face. Those freckles are pretty scattered all over his cheeks.
And right here, I realize that if I never feel again, I’ll never be able to enjoy kissing those freckles.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, “Clean me off.”
“What?” Dakota’s eyes widen.
“Clean. Me. Off.” My body is hot, but for another reason besides detox. I can’t seem to help myself. I’m around the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. And he’s also kind and considerate and so damn cute I just can’t help but get hard.
And I actually want to get hard. I want to feel. Even if it’s just for this short moment.
Dakota’s pupils are wide. He licks his lips, and I watch the movement closely.
“Do it, freckles. Lick me clean.”