CHAPTER 4. MASKS
A cold chill runs through me as it clicks—his unfocused eyes, the blank expression, how strange he’s been. It all makes sense now.
“Hey, I said come here,” the Joker snaps, stepping closer and grabbing for Moon’s shoulder, trying to yank him off me.
The anger hits so hard it knocks the buzz out of me. Whatever dizziness I felt before is gone—burned off in a second.
“Back off, asshole,” I say, shoving his hand away, hard.
“Who the fuck are you?” he spits, eyes blazing. He’s tall—about my height—and built too, but if this turns into a fight, I already know he won’t stand a chance.
“Did you drug him?” I growl, jaw tight, nodding toward Moon, now completely slumped against me.
“Are you crazy?” the Joker says, faking a frown—but there’s no real surprise in his eyes. And to me, that says everything.
I see the flicker of a decision cross his face, like he’s about to try yanking Moon off me again—but that’s when Eric steps in, a wall of muscle at my side, looks him dead in the eye, and says, “Problem?”
“Fuck you,” the Joker snaps at me, then turns and disappears into the crowd.
Eric turns back, giving both Moon and me a quick once-over before asking, “What the fuck is going on?”
“Can you help me get him out of here?” I say, suddenly aware of how many people are still watching. We need to leave—fast—before anyone realizes who we are. “That douchebag spiked his drink.”
“What?” Eric says, totally thrown—then he blinks and springs into action, wrapping one arm around Moon’s waist while I steady him from the other side. But before we can get him away from the center of attention, the bartender in the Scooby-Doo costume steps in front of us.
“Do you need help?” he asks, looking at Eric, then turns to me. “I heard that guy spiked his drink.” His voice is low, serious, waiting for me to confirm. “I can call the police.”
I pause, glancing at Eric, unsure. If we involve the cops, this could end up in the news—and I’m not sure that’s what Moon wants.
“No,” Moon says suddenly, lifting his head and turning toward me. “No police. Take me home. Please.”
“Alright,” I say, nodding. “We’ll take you home.”
“Do you know him?” the bartender asks, looking between us, concern etched across his face.
“Yes,” Eric says, nodding. “We’ll get him home—but can you pull the security footage? Might be useful if he decides to press charges.”
The Scooby-Doo bartender nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Mind if I get your number, just in case?” Eric adds, and I snap a look at him. Is he seriously trying to get the guy’s number in the middle of this trainwreck?
His face is blank—calm, serious—but I know him. This is 100% part of his long game to get into Scooby’s pants. Ladies and gentlemen: my best friend Eric. What an asshole.
“Sure,” the bartender says, apparently not catching the real motive.
Eric hands over his phone, and the guy types in his number.
“What’s your name?” Eric asks, just as smooth.
“Luke.”
“Thanks, Luke,” Eric nods, taking the phone back, then turns to me. “Let’s go.”
***
Twenty minutes later, Nick, Eric, and I are standing outside the bar, Eric and I still propping Moon upright.
We’re waiting for the taxi, which should be here any minute, while Nick—who ordered the car—looks caught somewhere between horrified by the situation and weirdly excited that Sawyer Moon is coming home with us.
Yeah. Moon apparently forgot his own address. We’ve asked him at least a dozen times, and every time he just mumbled something incoherent. I’m pretty sure he lives in Dallas, but at this point, even that feels like a guess.
“Thank God you were there, Marco,” Nick says, looking at me with this mix of relief and awe. “God knows what would’ve happened if you weren’t.”
I nod but don’t say anything. There’s still this sick feeling in my gut—like we got to him minutes before disaster.
And the fact that Moon managed to tell me, even in the state he was in, keeps circling in my head.
I wonder if he even recognized me—or if it was just instinct, reaching for someone, anyone, when he realized he wasn’t safe.
The taxi pulls up a few moments later. I climb into the backseat, dragging Moon in with me, while Eric takes the front and Nick slides in on Moon’s other side.
“Did you check if he still has his phone and wallet?” Nick asks as soon as the car starts moving. “That douchebag could’ve robbed him too.”
“No,” I mutter, reaching over to pat the pockets of Moon’s tracksuit. I feel his phone, and something else zipped inside that’s probably his wallet. But just as I’m about to pull back, Moon’s hand grabs mine. He looks up at me, eyes half-lidded, head wobbling slightly.
“What are you doing?” he mumbles, fingers curled around my wrist.
“Nothing,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too good,” Moon says slowly, letting go of my hand.
From the other side of the seat, Nick’s eyes go wide—like he’s thrilled just to hear Moon speak. What a traitor. This is the same guy who’s always called him a pompous asshole in private, and now he’s sitting here like a giddy fanboy.
“Want some water?” Nick asks, pulling a bottle out of the ridiculous hat on the floor between his feet and setting it in Moon's lap. Luke, the bartender, gave it to us before we left.
Moon turns to him slowly, then looks down at the bottle with suspicion, like he’s not sure he should trust it. His brows pull together as he turns back to me.
“Who’s this guy?” he asks.
“This is my older brother, Nick,” I tell him.
Moon blinks at me, then says, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
My heart does a stupid little flip at that. Does he really know it’s me?
“Do you even recognize me?”
“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze.
“Who am I?” I ask, still not totally convinced.
“You’re Mark,” he says, without hesitation.
My pulse jumps. So he does know it’s me.
Then his face shifts—serious, almost confused. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Moon,” I say.
“No.”
“Sawyer?” I offer, wondering if he’s slipping into full delirium.
“Yes,” he says, then grins—lazy, a little crooked. “But you can call me baby.”
Nick, shamelessly listening in from the other side, bursts out laughing.
Eric, who missed the whole thing under the hum of the car, turns to ask what’s going on.
While Nick fills him in, Moon leans into me, his head dropping onto my shoulder, his nose brushing my cheek as he murmurs, “You smell nice.”
“Thanks?” I say, my heart in my throat now, blood rushing in my ears. Jesus—he must be seriously out of it, because the real Sawyer would probably drink poison before admitting he likes how I smell.
“Do you live with someone?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “I can call them to come get you.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says—and after a pause, lets out a sigh. “I miss my mom. She’s in Chicago.”
I snort, glancing at him—completely thrown by how different he is without that usual mask of superiority. Nick must be thinking the same thing, because he’s watching us again, both hands over his mouth, trying not to laugh.
“Why are you smiling?” Moon asks, catching my gaze.
“No reason,” I say, trying to ignore my brother, who’s clearly having the time of his life. I pick up the bottle from Moon’s lap, unscrew the cap, and hand it to him. “Drink some water. It'll help.”
“You sure it’s not drugged?” he asks, eyeing the bottle. He’s starting to sound more lucid now. Whatever was in his drink, his body’s taken the hit and is already starting to bounce back.
“It’s not, I promise,” I tell him.
He nods, then grabs it and downs the whole thing in one go. Once he’s finished, I take the empty bottle from him.
“Do you remember your home address?” I try again. His eyes are clearer—maybe there’s a chance.
“Downtown,” he says. “By the blue house.”
He’s still on about that damn blue house. I give up. It’s not like we’re going to cruise around the city hoping to spot a building that rings a bell—or worse, try his key in random locks.
“Do you know that guy from the club?” I ask instead.
“Who?” he frowns.
“The Joker guy.”
Moon blinks, as if trying to figure out what I’m asking. Then blinks again—like it clicks—and shakes his head.
“We met at the club,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “He wanted me to blow him in the bathroom. I said no, so he spiked my drink.”
My stomach turns. Jesus. He says it so flatly, like it’s just a fact—and all I feel is the urge to go back to that club and cave that guy’s face in.
“You shouldn’t drink with strangers,” I mutter. He doesn’t answer.
I glance over—his eyes are shut, his body slumped against mine. I reach out to check if he’s still breathing. There’s warmth on my hand from his breath, but I still watch his chest to make sure it’s rising, then find his pulse. It’s strong enough. He’s okay—for now.
I don’t know what that asshole put in his drink, but at least Moon’s warm, breathing steady. His skin’s not clammy, lips not blue—stuff I know to look for in situations like this.
I let him rest against me, though I’m already thinking maybe we should call an ambulance when we get to Nick’s. Just in case.
***
He comes to about half an hour later, just as we’re dragging him into Nick’s apartment and dropping him onto the couch.
In the harsh living room light, Moon blinks up at the three of us like he’s not sure if we’re real. Which—fair. The first thing he sees is a Squid Game guard, the Cat in the Hat, and Conan the Barbarian.
He squints hard, like he’s trying to blink the hallucination away, then opens his eyes again and mumbles, “Who the fuck are you?”
“You don’t remember?” I ask, arms crossed, stomach twisting.
His gaze snaps to me. He blinks, and his porcelain cheeks flush red.
“Where are we?” he says—like he just remembered the answer to the first question.
“At my place,” Nick says, dropping his giant hat on the floor and holding out a hand. “I’m Nick—Mark’s brother.”
I cringe on instinct, already bracing for whatever snarky reaction Moon’s about to deliver.