Chapter 6 Nil
Nil
By the time we sit for dinner, Stan has everyone in the mess hall listening to him, even the ones who showed up looking ready to glare at a Song-Smith.
Only a few hold onto that anger. The rest look like they’re enjoying the free entertainment. Some are on the verge of becoming fanboys.
I scoff into a spoonful before stuffing my mouth with meat.
They’re trying not to look like it, but it’s obvious. A guy at the end of the table keeps stealing glances at Stan’s arms like he’s trying to memorize his muscles. Another one keeps laughing a beat too late, like he’s scared to be caught enjoying jokes from Clo’s son.
Stan doesn’t seem to notice the tension. Or he notices and doesn’t care.
He’s in the middle of telling some story with his hands, describing a “family game night” that somehow ended with a burned coffee table.
“So then Damon pulls out this spreadsheet—an actual spreadsheet—and assigns everyone fun roles for the evening,” Stan says with dramatic hand gestures. “And Kaye threatened to stab him with a fondue skewer if he tried to project manage joy again.”
A couple of the guys snort into their food. Someone outright cackles. At the far end of the table, one of the few who aren’t charmed keeps his eyes on his plate. Jaw clenched. Shoulders rigid.
To give my hands something to do, I take a bite of food. The meal’s simple—pasta, meat, sauce, some vegetables—but it’s real food, not hospital mush or charity gala canapés that are really poison.
While I eat, I watch Stan take over the room without trying, the same way he caught my attention the first day we met half a year ago.
Across from me, Stan’s plate looks ridiculous. It’s mostly empty, but there are bones he rearranged into a smiley face.
“Anyway, long story short, Damon banned charades,” Stan finishes. “Because Kaye’s version of ‘acting out a word’ is basically foreplay to him.”
A wave of laughter rolls down the table.
The guy with the clenched jaw doesn’t laugh. He lifts his eyes instead and looks straight at Stan. “You think any of this is funny?” the guy says, his knife clattering onto his tray.
Laughter dies. People go still. I grip my own knife a bit tighter while I glare at the guy.
Stan lifts his brows and smiles. “I think most things are funny, Jon,” he says. “Helps with the not screaming into the void part. Why, you offended for the coffee table? I only asked Sterling to burn it ‘cause I swear I saw jizz stains—”
The guy cuts Stan off. “I’m offended for the people your goddamn family hurt!”
The air gets colder. But I’m running hot now, about to get up, give the guy a talking to and a stab to go with it. Stan’s hand reaches over mine and makes me put my knife down.
The guy’s voice carries across the mess. “Your mother destroyed thousands of lives!”
Heat snaps at my chest. In a flash, I picture Jon on the floor. My fist connecting. Bone giving way.
It scares me how fast the thought comes.
I force it down just as quickly.
My hand goes to my left ear before I think about it. My finger finds the cool gold there.
It relaxes me for a second. Then my muscles tense. I’m halfway prepared to get between Jon and Stan, because I know how much weight that sentence carries, and I know who people should really aim it at. Stan didn’t make Kys. Clo didn’t make it either. She just made it worse.
The blame falls on my family. On my stepdad, Otis, who helped make the first version of Kys, when it was only meant to help, but it kept getting twisted and twisted—
Stan kicks me under the table, tearing me out of my thoughts. My gaze snaps from Jon to Stan, and his gray eyes curve down with his lips lifting up. That’s when I take a breath in and let my thumb brush my earring again.
My eyes track Stan getting up and walking over to Jon. “True,” Stan says. “She did a lot of terrible things. Which I regret on her behalf because she’s not here to take customer complaints. But since you’re aiming at me, I’ll help you out.”
He spreads his hands like he’s presenting himself as a prize for some sick game he wants to play. I frown, waiting to see what he’ll do, still gearing myself to fight if that’s what it comes to.
“I didn’t make Kys. Hell, I didn’t even make my bed this morning. You can ask my roomie,” he says, nodding at me.
Some stares land on me, and I push my shoulders down, alert to their attention.
“But if you need to punch someone to feel better, I’m here,” Stan continues with a chuckle. “I mean, my main contribution to society has been bein’ the family fuck-up. I think a punch is overdue.”
A ripple of laughter breaks through the tension. Someone snorts so hard he chokes on his juice.
Jon doesn’t laugh. His eyes are locked onto Stan. “You joke about this shit too fucking much.”
“That’s because if I stop joking,” Stan says, “I’ll remember that my mother used Kys to make me do things I didn’t even know I could say no to. That’ll make me cry. And trust me, you do not want to see a man my size sobbing during dinner. It’ll ruin everyone’s appetite.”
I can feel the moment Jon’s anger starts to simmer. But something in me still builds. I fight back my flinch and bite down my frown.
Because Jon’s words should be aimed at me. At my family. At my stepdad.
The others don’t know that about Kys. Stan does. But he still pulls the blame toward himself.
Jon grits his teeth, clear from here. “You really think offering yourself up fixes anything?”
“Fix? No.” Stan grins. “But if you need a good fight to unclog some emotional plumbing, I could stand it.”
I knit my brows, shocked by his blatant offer. But Jon’s not rising to the bait.
Stan sees it. “Look, man. You want someone to blame, go ahead and dump it on me. I can take it. I’m built for abuse. Once had a priest choke me with a rosary. Loved every second of it.”
“Stan,” I whisper sharp.
“What?” He holds his palms up. “It’s called spiritual healing. And he got time in prison for it. Don’t worry, I’m sure he loved dropping the soap there.”
Jon presses his lips together in what might be a smirk if he weren’t trying so hard to hold on to his anger. “You’re dumb as rocks, Song-Smith.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Stan says with a wink. “Thanks, bud.”
A few seconds pass. Cutlery clinks. Someone clears their throat. Everyone goes back to eating.
Stan kicks me under the table again. “See,” he whispers, leaning over. “Crisis averted.”
“You didn’t need to protect me,” I whisper back. “I’ll live.”
“Big words from someone who almost didn’t.”
I shake my head, but my mouth betrays me with a small smile.
“Knew you were into my sense of humor, Ocean Eyes.” He leans back in his chair with a smug, devastating grin. “Now, what do you say about having frozen coffee for dessert?”
That’ll cool me down, so I say, “Yeah, count me in.”
***
After a long night of chatting over frozen coffee in our cabin, I fall asleep without thoughts weighing me down. Guess I have Stan to thank for that.
But what I don’t have to thank him for, is how I wake up to the sunlight on my face and the sound of him talking loudly in our room. To himself…?
“…when I get a taste of remixed Kys, I just know it’s gonna feel so damn good to have it back in my system. I’m not worried about side effects. I mean, if the bad version Ma made didn’t do long-term damage, then Em’s remix is gonna do me some good, right? So why would I even need to stress?”
I can also hear him tap his foot on the floor.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
He must’ve heard that. He quickly shoots up and faces me. His grin’s on. His gray eyes lit up. My own eyes are blinking open, heavy from my sleep getting interrupted.
“Oh good. He lives,” he says, crossing his arms over my bunk, face inches from mine. “Rise and shine, Ocean Eyes. We have a big day. Monumental. Potentially world-changing. And by world-changing, I mean my world, because today’s the day Em gives us the good stuff.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Did you already drink coffee?”
“Nope!” Stan sounds like he’s practically shouting this early in the morning. “I never slept. I had too much of that frozen coffee last night.”
“It’s too early for you to be this loud,” I whisper, groaning.
“So what? Time’s an illusion. Coffee’s in me. Soon, Kys. Maybe you too.” He chuckles. I don’t get the joke. “Now, get down here so I can talk at a reasonable angle. My neck’s suffering from staring at your beauty.”
“What the fuck, Stan?” I grumble, getting out of bed.
We head to the showers together, and I try to catch his words, but he’s talking even quicker this morning. Or my brain’s moving slow. My body sure is.
Still, when we’re brushing our teeth over the sinks, I see how he’s facing me and avoiding the mirror.
I frown, trying to remember anything about mirrors that Stan might not like. But that part of my brain won’t make the memories clear.
“Come on, Ocean Eyes. Time to face the day!”
I follow him out as he leads us to the mess hall for breakfast.
My eyes drift down to his back pockets. There’s something interesting about the shape. The curves. The way they bounce a bit.
Oh, god… I’m staring at his ass.
Heat crawls up my face while my eyes widen.
Shaking my head, I jog to meet his stride while he talks a mile per minute about how he hopes there’s better coffee being served this morning.
Later, while we’re eating breakfast, Stan’s stuffing his face as fast as he talks. It’s a miracle he doesn’t choke. It’s like the man doesn’t have a gag reflex.
I try not to think too hard about that.
Oh, god, don’t think about the word hard.
Shit. I frown. I just thought it.
“Nil, dude, don’t be nervous,” Stan says, chewing with his mouth open.
That should be disgusting, but on him, it’s fucking…cute.
“Look, okay, fine, yeah, I’m nervous too. I mean, I’m rambling nonstop. My foot won’t stop tapping, but listen, you and me? And this ship of troublemakers? We’ll take that new Kys that Em made, and we’ll goddamn get through this.”