Chapter Sixteen Banks
Chapter Sixteen
Banks
The second I see Dawson stumbling around the frat’s kitchen, I know something is up. It takes two minutes of watching him struggling to open a bag of pretzels to realize what.
I grab the bag from him and open it, voice lowering so nobody in the hall overhears. “I thought you were done with that shit. You promised.”
He stumbles, catching himself on the kitchen counter and shaking my helping hand off. “Funny,” he slurs, sniffling as he snatches the bag from me. “So did you. But you never keep your word. You haven’t since sophomore year.”
Dawson convinced me to rush a few fraternities our sophomore year. It didn’t take long for me to bounce because of the shit they had some of the new kids doing. Sure, I’d promised to do it together, but I wasn’t going to be part of their little hazing projects just to get the upperclassmen’s approval.
Dawson was a different story. He knew exactly which Greek house he wanted to join and was willing to do anything to be initiated. Legal or not. It didn’t matter that I told him we should both bail because his mind was set.
As bad as it was for his mentor, Marco, to be caught with twelve ounces of cocaine last year, it was worse for Dawson because he became addicted to the product Marco was making him distribute. If the new president and I hadn’t found him, I don’t know if he’d be here now. And the thought… Christ. It fucks with me. Makes me feel like I was partly responsible because we’d gotten into a rift over Desiree. He’d been mad. Understandably so. Avoided me. Told me I was a horrible friend for going after his girlfriend. I didn’t know they were actually serious since he’d never been serious about anything in his life.
But I knew better than to get involved at all. That’s on me.
If I’d known how deep he was into his use, I would have tried stepping in sooner instead of turning the other way.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps, scooping out a handful of pretzels. He drops more than he keeps, stepping on a few that are scattered on the floor with his Jordans because he can’t stand straight.
“Come on, man. Don’t lie to me. Remember what happened last time?”
He glares with bloodshot eyes, which are a dead giveaway as to how bad it’s gotten. Pot used to take off the edge for him. But the way his face has gone gaunt tells me it’s beyond that point again. “That was an accident.”
An accident. I let myself believe it before because I didn’t want to think about the repercussions of his continual use. I wanted to believe he had a handle on it. I don’t know when it stopped being fun for him, when he decided he needed more; all I know is that it was too late to convince him to stop when he was found. He hadn’t liked me being at the hospital with him and even tried kicking me out after I told him I called his parents, but I stayed. Whether he liked it or not, we were friends.
I won’t let him do something detrimental to himself again.
“Yeah, well, that accident could have ended your life,” I point out, stepping toward him. “You said you were done. That Marco was gone for good. What happened?”
He took the steps. Got the help. Went to the programs and made his peace. Moving off campus helped. He didn’t want to be roommates but was open to renting the empty space downstairs when it became available. Away from temptation and close to friends. That’s what his counselor said he needed most, and he listened. I thought getting out of the frat helped too. Maybe I was wrong.
Dawson looks down at the mess he made before his eyes go to the hallway, where loud music is thumping from the living room. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. A little unfinished business.”
We both know that’s not true. During one of the counseling sessions he invited me to, he admitted to the group he’d almost gotten knifed by somebody who was in withdrawal and needed another hit. Did he really want to risk his life like that again? “You got a second chance, man. Why risk it for somebody else’s gain?”
When he doesn’t answer, I know it has to do with Marco or one of the goons who still help Marco out even after his expulsion.
“Daws—”
He walks past me, bumping my shoulder forcefully until I stumble back. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go hang out with Sawyer and get off my back?”
Sawyer? “What is that supposed to mean?”
He rubs his nose, sniffing who knows what. Now I’m wondering why I let him disappear for more than ten minutes when he got here and said he had to piss. It never takes him that long, even at parties. If the line is too long, he goes outside and finds a spot.
“I saw you two,” he tells me. “Last night.”
The back of my neck burns when I think about the figure I saw outside the building when Sawyer got out of my truck. “I don’t know what it is you think you saw, but—”
“Don’t do that. Don’t gaslight me.” He shoves the bag into my chest, but I don’t catch it in time before it falls to the floor. Pretzels go everywhere, making me cuss. “You two were practically making out in your truck. It’s like Desiree all over again. I asked you to figure out if she liked anybody, and you went in for the kill like you always do. It pisses you off that I have women who like me more than you because you’ve always been jealous of what I have.”
He honestly thinks that? Maybe there was a time when I was jealous of his home life. How his parents, even though divorced, are amicable. Maybe I have wanted what he’s had a time or two before. But not now. “No offense, buddy, but you’ve got too many problems for me to want to jump on the Dawson Gable train.”
His glare is ice-cold.
“For the record, we never made out. She kissed me . Just like Desiree did. Hit me if that’s what’s going to make you feel better, but don’t go back to using because you’re pissed. This isn’t like before. It’s not worth losing all the work you put in to get sober.”
I don’t know how he got back in contact with the people who put him in that position to begin with, but I’d like to think it has nothing to do with me.
“You’re really going to act like this isn’t history repeating itself?” he asks, dumbfounded. “I know you slept with her.”
“I never slept with Sawyer.”
“With Desiree .” He shoves a finger into my shoulder. “Try to tell me you didn’t. Go ahead. I fucking dare you. You never change.”
“I already apologized for that. This is nothing like with Desiree. She made her decision about both of us. She’s gone. Let’s not forget that. I thought we moved on.”
He grabs one of the liquor bottles that somebody left on the counter and uncaps it, taking a swig of the cheap vodka. “I thought we did too until I saw you drooling over Sawyer.”
I try taking the bottle from him, but he whips it away, almost falling over. “Last I heard, you’ve been spending a lot of time with her friend, so how much do you really care about her? Be honest with yourself, dude. You have no fucking idea what you want these days.”
Dawson’s face grows red. “Did you ever think that maybe it’s nice to have options for once? You wouldn’t know what it’s like because you’ve always gotten what you wanted whenever the hell you wanted it.”
A laugh bursts past my lips, bitter and cold. If that’s what he thinks, he doesn’t know me well at all. He’s never tried to see past the mask that I wear every goddamn day of my life. “That’s ridiculous. Look, I don’t want to do this. You’re not in your right mind. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. Maybe cut out early. We can get the girls and head back to—”
“Speak of the devil,” he announces loudly, pushing off the counter and walking toward the doorway, where Sawyer is standing and looking between us with skepticism on her face. “It’s our girl, Banks. Sawyer, do me a favor.”
Her eyes widen when she sees how drunk he is, smile wavering when he stumbles toward her. He’s got at least a foot on her, so trying to catch him is pointless, but she puts her hands on his arms all the same.
“Are you okay?” she asks him.
Anger bubbles under my skin as he invades her personal space, and I know he’s doing this on purpose to get to me.
Dawson nearly drops the glass bottle when he loops one arm around her waist and says, “Do me a favor and let me know which one of us is a better kisser.”
I see the frazzled look that widens her eyes right before his mouth is crushing hers.
It takes me a microsecond to go over and rip him off her, causing them both to stagger backward. I let Dawson go and manage to stabilize Sawyer before she hits the table set up behind her.
What I don’t expect is for my best friend to grab me and swing his fist as hard as he can until it connects with the side of my face. It’s a solid hit, made stronger by whatever is coursing through his veins right now.
Sawyer gasps when I land on the floor, my body loudly thumping into the linoleum. Her hands cover her red-painted lips as she steps back to assess the scene. My eyes blur from the hit, face stinging with pain that’ll surely be a headache in a matter of hours.
Dawson falls too, the vodka bottle shattering on the floor. Suddenly, there’s blood mixed with the clear liquor, and I realize he must have landed on the glass.
Dixie appears out of nowhere, running over to Dawson, clearly having no idea what happened. Last I saw the girls, they were dancing with a few other people, including Lucy, in the living room. I didn’t want to bother them when I went searching for the idiot now bleeding out on the kitchen floor. I wish I had.
Dixie lifts Dawson’s cut hand. “Oh my God! What happened?”
I manage to stand, avoiding the vodka and glass littering the floor. “He fell.”
Dixie pays me no attention as she coos over the drunken dickhead in front of her. She had enough liquid courage to flirt with Dawson earlier, but I’m not sure how much he was actually absorbing because his eyes were moving all over the room in search of something.
Or some one .
Whenever Dixie tried getting him to dance, he’d entertain her for a few seconds before grabbing another drink and glaring over to where I stood off to the side with a Corona. It makes sense now. He always wears his emotions when he’s drunk, and they’re obviously heightened.
Sawyer stares at Dawson from the hallway, her face flushed as she touches her lips. I’m about to ask if she’s okay when people start flooding the room to see what happened. Some of the frat brothers I recognize are freaking out over the scene, but I don’t stick around to see what they do about it.
Knowing Dixie will watch over Dawson until I get back, I follow Sawyer through the maze of students and out the front door.
“Wait,” I call out to her.
She doesn’t slow down, only tightens her jacket around her and picks up speed.
“Sawyer,” I yell after her.
“Not now, Banks,” she says over her shoulder. Her voice cracks, making my teeth grind. Dawson did that. “I’m fine. I just want to go home.”
“If you wait, I’ll drive you back.”
She shakes her head, still unwilling to face me, before saying, “I’m fine.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it. I can hear it in the way her tone breaks.
“At least take the truck!” I yell.
Realizing I’m not going to catch up or convince her to wait for me to bring her home, I curse under my breath and stop halfway down the sidewalk. We’re only a block away from our apartment, so I know she’ll get there quickly. I see her out walking almost every day whenever it isn’t raining, so I trust she can find her way back even though everything in me is screaming to follow her.
But I know her petite friend inside is hardly going to be able to handle Dawson on her own.
When I get back inside, Dawson is standing, leaning on Dixie as she holds a red-stained towel around his hand. “Come on,” I tell her, helping her guide him when I see her struggling to support his weight. “I’ll take him to the hospital and make sure he doesn’t need stitches. I can drop you off at Sawyer’s place since that’s on the way.”
Dixie’s eyes widen as she keeps ahold of his other arm. “What? No! I’m coming with you.”
“Dixie, I think you should—”
“Just let her come,” Dawson cuts me off. “At least then I’ll know I have one person in my corner who likes me.”
Jesus. “Stop being dramatic and keep pressure on your hand.” I look at Dixie. “Fine, but at least call Sawyer and make sure she got back okay.”
She nods, texting her friend as soon as the three of us get into my truck. Once I hear that Sawyer is back in her apartment, I mentally remind myself to check on her later if we don’t get back too late.
After a few minutes down the road, with Dawson already passed out in the back, I hear Dixie’s quiet voice. “Who is Desiree? He was murmuring her name inside when you went after Sawyer.”
Jaw grinding, I grip the steering wheel tighter. “She was somebody Dawson and I used to know. She transferred out to go to some school in California.”
The only sound that fills the truck cab is Dawson’s snores.
Then, “Did he love her?”
Christ. I asked myself that too once when I saw how mad he was, so I can’t blame her for wondering. “I don’t know. I didn’t think so until…”
Until she came onto me when I was hammered at that party. Was letting her make a move that night smart? At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But I’d drank at least half a bottle of Seagram’s 7 by myself on top of a couple beers, so reason was out the door by then. I always found her cute, and I liked the attention she gave me. We hooked up at the party and went our separate ways by the end of the night.
Dawson is right. I was a shitty friend.
I used alcohol and sex to get through a lot of shit I kept hidden from him and everybody else. And I hurt him.
There’s nothing I can do about it now. I’ve managed to let it go. I thought he had too.
“Desiree is old news” is the only thing I can offer her.
The rest of the ride to the hospital is full of silence, and I know it’s because she obviously doesn’t believe me. When I turn the radio on to drown it out, an old eighties country song starts playing.
“You like country music?” Dixie asks to fill the silence.
My fingers twitch around the wheel. “No.”
“Oh.” She watches me for a moment.
Clearing my throat, I flick the radio dial to turn it to a different station. “Sawyer does.”
I feel her eyes on me, but she doesn’t reply.
But I see a small smile from my peripheral.
A few minutes later, Dawson fights me as I get him out of the back seat and into the emergency room. I don’t care if he’s going to get into trouble for whatever he’s on because I’m more concerned about his hand. Hell, maybe getting into trouble will do him some good. That’s what had to happen last time for him to get his act together.
Dixie volunteers to stay with him since only one of us is allowed back until he can get fixed up, so I let her follow the nurse when she takes him back to one of the rooms.
I’m walking over to the waiting room seating when I see one of the desk clerks staring at me with a frown. “That’s going to be a shiner,” she tells me. She glanced between Dawson and me when we brought him in like she knew exactly what happened. Working in a college town, I’m sure she’s seen a lot. “Need some ice while you wait?”
I shake my head, willing to bask in the pain throbbing in my face.
I deserve it.
Enabler.
Knee bouncing when I sit, I realize that I’m in deeper than I want to be. Because instead of worrying about the person behind the closed doors probably getting stitched up as we speak, I’m thinking about Sawyer.
Frankly, I’m glad he fell when he hit me.
Because if he hadn’t, then I would have returned the favor for grabbing Sawyer, and I’m not sure I would have stopped as easily as he did after I saw her body lock up from the invasion.
Who knows where my friendship with Dawson would have gone if that had happened.
An ice pack appears in front of my face.
When I look up, the woman from the desk is standing in front of me. “It’ll help.”
I blink at the offering, slowly wrapping my fingers around the bag of wrapped ice, not that I think I deserve it.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders for such a young man,” she notes, studying me. “Hopefully it gets better.”
Her kind smile has me staring in disbelief as she walks back over to her desk and keeps working.
Sometime later, long after my phone dies and my patience thins to nothing, Dixie appears and tells me I can come back. As we’re walking to Dawson’s room, I say, “Speaking as a friend, you can do a lot better than him.”
It’s not a dick thing to say if it’s the truth. She seems like a sweet girl with a promising future. I don’t know how deep whatever Dawson got himself into is this time, but I know it’s going to take a lot to get back out of. I’d hate to see him drag anybody down with him.
Dixie seems contemplative, hearing me out with a wariness to her sullen eyes. “Is he like this a lot?”
I know she’s heard about his past from people around campus, so all I can say is “He struggles.”
She looks down at the linoleum, absorbing my answer. After a few quiet seconds, she responds, “He could be worth it.”
My chin dips, doubt curling my mouth. “He could be,” I agree, knowing what she does with this information is solely up to her.
“Sawyer feels bad,” she tells me, wiggling her phone. “She told me what happened.”
I stare dubiously at her. How could she blame herself for something she had no control over? “It wasn’t her fault. And I hope you don’t get upset with her over Dawson’s idiocy. I provoked him.”
“I’m not mad. At her, at least.” Dixie looks down again, rubbing her arm. “She wanted to go to a party so she could cross it off her list. If we hadn’t gone, maybe you guys wouldn’t have fought. He wouldn’t have…kissed her.” She cringes. “We wouldn’t be here.”
Chances are we would have gotten into it one way or another. In our friendship, I’m the voice of reason. Which is fucking scary.
“Dawson can be hard to be around sometimes,” I admit. “That’s why he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one of them, especially if he’s not going to respect you how you deserve.”
“Speaking as a friend,” she repeats.
“And as someone who knows Dawson.”
She frowns, not saying anything. It’s her decision at the end of the day. I’ll still be his friend, even if I’m tempted to punch him in the face sometimes. I just hope she doesn’t feel as obligated.
“So. A list, huh?” I remark, choosing to change topics in hopes of lightening the mood. “Tell me about it.”
* * *
I don’t bother being quiet in the morning despite the six-foot-six idiot passed out on my couch. It was a long night at the ER, and they wouldn’t let him out until he sobered up. It was almost four when I dropped Dixie off at the dorms and brought Dawson back to my place to keep an eye on him.
Shaking my head when I see the way his long legs hang off the end of the couch, I make myself a pot of coffee with the intent of drinking the whole thing. But as soon as it finishes brewing and I see the way Dawson is still knocked out, I pour a second cup and walk across the hall.
It’s almost noon, so I don’t feel bad knocking on the door, especially when I have caffeinated reinforcements. But when a few minutes go by and nobody answers, I try again.
Nothing.
I wait for good measure, hoping to check in to see if she’s okay, but when the door opens, it’s not her who answers.
“Can I help you?” the older man asks, his eyes piercing down at me. He’s not much taller than me, but he stands like he is.
I lift the coffee at the man I can only assume is her father. “I was just bringing Sawyer over something to drink.”
He looks at the cup and then at my face. His gaze narrows. “And you are?”
“Her neighbor,” I answer, adding, “sir.”
He studies me with his dark eyes, making me wonder if Sawyer got her blue ones and blond hair from her mother. “She’s already got coffee.”
I find myself staring down at the steaming cup in my hands and nodding.
“That’s a hell of a bruise, son. What happened to your face?” he asks, studying the black-and-blue coloring on my cheek suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
He chuckles. “I work with a lot of young men with pent-up emotions. That’s not nothing.”
Sawyer said her father was in the Navy, so I’m sure he deals with a lot of people ready to fight from their long stints away from home. “It was a misunderstanding.”
Half his lips kick up in the corners. “Ah. I was young once too” is all he says. Then I see his hand extend out. “Christopher. Sawyer’s father.”
I shake his hand, meeting his firm grip with my own. “Banks.”
One of his eyebrows pops up, his hand tightening briefly before letting go. His eyes cast over me and then to the door across the hall. “Do you make a habit of bringing my daughter coffee every day?”
He’s protective. “No.”
A thoughtful noise comes from him before he takes the cup from me and steps back. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I suggest putting some ice on that. It’ll help. Trust me.”
I watch as he dips his chin once and grabs the door. “And, Banks?”
“Sir?”
“Try not to make it a habit to bring your misunderstandings around my daughter. She’s been through enough.”
He closes the door behind him, leaving me in the hallway wondering what exactly Sawyer has been through.
Heading back to my apartment, I grab my cup of coffee from the counter when Dawson startles awake and falls off the couch.
I look over to see him groaning as he rolls onto his back. He’s lucky he didn’t slam into the coffee table and make me drive him back to the hospital. Although he’d probably do more damage to the table than himself since it was a cheap piece of junk I found at a yard sale when I moved here.
“You good?” I ask, bringing him the cup I was about to drink.
I wait for him to get up and sit back down on the couch before passing him the steaming mug. I’ve been through this with him enough times to know he probably doesn’t remember shit from last night.
The second he sees my face, it cements my suspicion. “What the fuck happened to you?”
When I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror this morning, I cringed. The nurse was right. I have a shiner, and it makes me glad my split lip is healed, or else people are going to think I’m in some sort of underground fighting club.
I gesture. “You.”
For the first time since he woke up, his eyes drop to his hand. The six stitches in his palm are hidden behind the gauze that he flexes. “I don’t…” His brows pinch in confusion. “I don’t remember what happened.”
I’m not shocked. “You owe Sawyer an apology,” I tell him first and foremost. I couldn’t care less about what he did to me, but she didn’t deserve to be treated that way. “You crossed a line with her.”
He pales, rubbing his good hand along the side of his face. “What did I do?”
How much do I tell him? “You were tweaked on something,” I start with, eyes piercing him knowingly, which he avoids. “And drunk. Not a great combination to begin with.”
His eyes stay on the cup of coffee in his hand, hyper-focused on the steam billowing from the top. “It was a tough week.”
That’s all he has to say? “You could have died mixing shit, Dawson. We both know it. And I don’t want you to be angry at me for pushing this, but it needs to be done. You fought this addiction once; you can do it again.”
Before it’s too late.
His shoulders hunch. “What did I do to Sawyer?” I can hear the concern in his voice. He feels bad, which is good.
“Nothing you can’t fix,” I reply easily.
Neither one of us truly knows Sawyer that well, but I think she’s a forgiving person. She’s got a softness to her that could make or break someone, but it works in her favor.
Dawson sighs, setting the cup down. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I wonder if last night’s events are coming back to him or he’s apologizing for relapsing.
“I’m not the one who needs to hear that,” I tell him simply, clasping his shoulder. “I’m sure Dixie wouldn’t mind hearing it either though. Drink your coffee and then we’ll go grab something greasy. I think you could use it.”
The low groan coming from him is amusing. I hide my smirk behind my cup, walking into the kitchen.
After one heart-attack-stacked plate full of pancakes, eggs, and bacon later, it’s like nothing ever happened between Dawson and me. He’s shoving food into his mouth like usual, downing his orange juice, and talking about school. Not Marco. Not the drugs. Not Sawyer or Dixie.
I almost feel bad for calling his counselor and getting a meeting set up behind his back.
As he finishes his last bite, I lean back in my spot across from him. “Grab your things,” I tell him, setting a few bills onto the table for our food and sliding out of the booth. “We’re going to a meeting.”
His eyes bolt up to me. “I don’t—”
“It’s not up for discussion. Let’s go.”
Betrayal sets into his eyes.
“You need help,” I tell him quietly.
He stays seated, staring at his empty plate.
“Can I at least go to the bathroom first?”
“Fine. I’ll wait by the truck.”
A few minutes go by.
No Dawson.
Another five.
After two more, I walk in and knock on the bathroom door.
It’s empty.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl under my breath.
I call Dawson.
He doesn’t pick up.
I text him.
He doesn’t answer.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I start my truck up and decide if I want to try finding him.
But how much more time can I give to someone who just wants to waste it?