Chapter 22 Jace
JACE
No one says a word to me as I walk through the dining room, and I don’t hate the way they scramble out of my way as I head over to the table shoved into the back corner of the room.
I usually try not to let people see what I can do with a blade, but whatever. Mason needed to be taught a lesson, and he’s damn lucky I had to behave myself because there were so many witnesses around.
The table is laden with various types of booze and mixes, and I survey my choices before picking up a bottle of orange juice and pouring a healthy amount into a glass.
“Thanks,” Shane says, his voice gruff, as he comes to stand beside me.
“No worries.” I recap the juice and put the bottle back on the table. “I know it’s going to be a good night when I get a chance to show Betty off.”
“Betty?”
“My knife.”
“You named your knife Betty?” He shoots me a confused look and picks up a bottle of vodka.
“Yup.” I add a splash of ginger ale to my drink. “The other one from the set is Veronica, but I left Ronnie at home tonight.”
“You named both of your knives?”
“I named all my knives,” I correct.
“All of your knives?” He pours about a shot of vodka into a glass. “How many do you have?”
“Not sure. Lost count a while ago.”
“And you gave them all girls’ names?”
“Not all of them.” I pick up a bottle of cranberry juice and unscrew the cap. “Some of my favorites have guys’ names. It all depends on the blade.”
“You know that’s not normal, right?” He puts the vodka back on the table and picks up an energy drink. “Normal people don’t name their knives. Or even have enough knives to name.”
I chuckle and use a plastic stir stick to mix up my drink. “I’ve never claimed to be normal.”
He watches as I lift my glass and take a sip.
“You forgot the good stuff,” he says when I put my glass on the table.
“I did?”
He nods. “How’re you going to get fucked up on just juice?”
“Who says I want to get fucked up?” I gently pry the energy drink out of his hand and replace it with a can of Sprite.
He glances down at the can, then back at me. “Why do I want this?”
“Because the caffeine will cancel out the vodka.”
That isn’t true, but it’s less likely to trigger his “you can’t tell me what to do” defense than telling him that mixing booze and caffeine is bad for his heart.
“Good call.” He pops the tab on the can and pours most of it into his glass. “You don’t want to get fucked up?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?” He blinks at me like a stunned owl.
His eyes are red and a bit unfocused, and the slight slur to his words tells me he’s well on his way to getting fucked up.
“Because I don’t get fucked up around people I don’t trust.” I take the mostly empty can out of his hand.
“You don’t?”
Shaking my head, I lift the can to my lips, and I don’t miss the way his eyes fill with heat as he watches me drink what’s left in it.
“But I’ve seen you drunk before,” he says when I lower the can.
“No, you haven’t.” I toss it into a nearby bucket full of empties. “You’ve seen me high, but that’s it.”
“I have seen you drunk,” he insists. “I’ve lived in the same building as you for almost three years. Gone to the same parties for just as long. I’ve seen you drunk.”
“Have you seen me drunk? Or have you seen me pretending I am because everyone else is?”
He furrows his brow like he’s thinking really hard about my question. “Is that part of your android thing? You run your drunk program to blend in with us humans when we’re having fun?”
I chuckle. “You could say that.”
“Why did you come to the party?”
“Because you invited me.”
“Because I told you about the girls?”
I meet his eyes. “No. Not because you told me about the girls.”
He swallows, his throat working and his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that’s oddly captivating. “Did you come because of me?” he asks so quietly his voice is almost a whisper.
“Yes.” Picking up my drink, I take a sip, making sure to keep eye contact with him as I do.
He slowly drags his tongue over his lower lip, and I don’t miss the way he drops his gaze to my mouth when I lower my glass.
“Do you like knowing that?” I ask softly.
He nods, still staring at my mouth.
“Shane!”
He blinks and shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake himself free of some sort of spell, and glances at Paxton, who’s waving him over from across the room.
“I gotta go,” he mumbles, shooting me a quick look, then grabs his drink and scurries away.
I keep him in my sight as he and Paxton exchange a few words, then watch as the two of them slip out of the room.
Keeping some distance between us, I follow them down the hall and into the front room.
The space is dark with no overhead lights or lamps, only a few strings of fairy lights illuminating the room, and I keep to the shadows as they join a group of people in the far corner near the giant bay window.
More of that ugly, dark feeling from before curls out from deep in my body as I watch one of the girls in the group cozy up to Shane’s side and gaze up at him adoringly.
He smiles at her, but he doesn’t make a move to return her advances, and some of those ugly feelings settle when he takes a small step to the side and puts some distance between them when she tries to rub his stomach like he’s some sort of lap dog.
She takes the hint and doesn’t try to snuggle up to him again, and the last of those feelings disappear as I sip my drink and watch Shane.
He’s smiling and laughing and looks like he’s having a great time, but something’s off with him.
He’s unsteady on his feet, and I can tell it’s more than the drunk spins hitting when he starts swaying gently, like he’s moving with a current.
His smile goes from big and fake to strained and small, and even the way he holds himself changes as his shoulders sag and his head falls forward, like he’s deflating in front of my eyes.
That’s more than just the alcohol hitting. He took something, and it kicked in.
Paxton leans over and says something to him. They exchange a few words, then Shane makes a vague gesture in the general direction of the door. Paxton nods, and Shane breaks away from the group, giving everyone a little wave when they turn to see what’s going on.
A few of them say something, but Shane just waves again and stumbles out of the room.
Keeping in the shadows, I follow him as he lurches down the hall, one hand on the wall like he needs it to stay upright. A few people call out to him, but he just gives them half-hearted waves and keeps moving toward the back of the house.
It takes him a painfully long time, but he drags himself to the back door and stumbles outside.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Mason and the three giant knuckleheads who act like his personal goon squad follow Shane through the door.
Putting my nearly empty cup on the closest table, I cut across the back room and slip outside after them.
Shane is standing a few feet from the back steps.
He’s bent over with his hands on his knees as he drags in harsh, labored breaths.
I can’t tell if he’s about to puke or hyperventilate, but that’s not the biggest threat to him right now, and I shift my attention to Mason and his cronies as they circle him.
“Not so tough without your little attack dog, are ya?” Mason taunts when Shane lifts his head to look up at him.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say about me,” I say loudly and descend the steps, jumping down from the third to the last one just because. “And here I thought we already talked about keeping our hands to ourselves and playing nice with others.”
“Fuck off, Hawthorne,” Ty, one of Mason’s cronies, says gruffly.
“No.”
“You want a piece of this?” Kyle, one of the other cronies, says, pulling a snub-nose revolver out from under his hoodie.
“And what are you going to do with that pea shooter?” I ask, looking between him and the gun.
“Take a step and find out.”
“Twenty-one feet,” I say casually.
“What?” Kyle glances at his buddies, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Twenty-one feet used to be widely accepted as the average distance someone with a knife can cover in the time it takes to draw, aim, and shoot a gun,” I tell him.
“So the rule of thumb used to be that if there was a threat within a twenty-one-foot radius, you shoot first to make sure you neutralize them before they can get you. I’d say there’s only about nine feet of distance between us. That means you’ve already lost.”
Kyle exchanges a look with Mason. “I already have my gun drawn and aimed. That makes that rule useless.”
“True, you do.”
“So who’s the loser now?” He waves the gun erratically, his finger on the trigger. “One move and you’re going home in a body bag.”
“Oh, no.” I put my hands up like I’m surrendering. “You’ve got me. I guess that would make me the loser.”
He shoots me a triumphant look. “Now get the fuck out of here before my finger slips and you end up with some lead between your eyes.”
I drop my hands. “No.”
He cocks the hammer of the gun. “Do you think I’m playing?”
“Well, considering that’s a double-action revolver and it doesn’t need to be cocked, you’re either trying to look tough and stalling, or you’re an idiot who doesn’t know how his weapon works. Either way, you would have already fired if your threat was serious.”
Kyle flicks his gaze to Mason, and that’s all the opening I need.
Taking advantage of his distraction, I cut the distance between us in three quick strides.
He swings his gaze back to me, but I’ve already got my hands on the gun, and a single twist is all it takes to disarm him.
“Told you you weren’t serious.” I point the gun at the ground and press the cylinder release so it swings out.
“If you were, you would have taken your shot when you had the chance.” I press the extractor rod so all of the bullets fall to the ground.
“And now I have your gun.” I give the cylinder a quick spin and flick my wrist to snap it back into place. “So who’s the loser now?”