Chapter 53
CHAPTER 53
The bedroom was bathed in unforgiving yellow light, every detail a testament to the chaos of the night before. Empty tequila bottles scattered across the floor glinted in the harsh brightness, while crumpled clothes lay in tangled heaps—jeans flung over a chair, a sequined bra caught on the corner of the dresser.
Sticky shot glasses, half-filled, sat abandoned on every surface, their rims crusted with salt. Shriveled limes dotted around them like casualties of some forgotten war.
Brick groaned low and deep as he stretched his arms high above his head. His joints cracking was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. His muscles ached with a dull throb that felt like a penance for something he couldn’t remember.
Blinking against the harsh glare filtering through the windows, he swore under his breath. “Shit,” his voice was gravelly, like sandpaper had been dragged across his vocal cords.
Raising a hand to rub his temple, he winced, then pressed his fingers into a particularly tender spot. “What the fuck happened?” he asked aloud, the words heavy with confusion and regret.
There was no answer to his questions. Rolling onto his side, he gave another louder groan, then brushed his hand against his ribs where a dull ache radiated, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.
Something wasn’t right—something beyond the usual hangover—an unease crawling just beneath his skin.
There was a low groan behind him. Not just any groan. The sound was soft but unmistakable, and it sent an icy chill racing down Brick’s spine.
He froze, every nerve in his body snapping to attention as the lump shifted beneath the quilt, a slow, lazy stir that made his heart pound harder than it already was.
Forcing himself to breathe, he stared at the large shape, its identity frustratingly obscured by layers of fabric and the bright sunlight streaming through the open blinds.
He spotted a familiar sight poking out from one corner. His hat sat crookedly atop what appeared to be someone’s head, tilted at an angle that suggested careless abandon rather than intentional placement.
Relief flooded through him, and for a brief moment a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Abbey?” he croaked, though doubt lingered even as he said her name. Maybe Lisa? Hell, both women had been here last night, that much he did remember.
Reaching out, his fingers moved against what should have been soft curves. Instead, they met something solid—unyielding muscle that was definitely not feminine.
Fuck.
He swallowed, yanking his hand back as though he’d burned it. His stomach twisted as realization slammed into him like a freight train, his heart stuttering before taking off at a breakneck pace that left him dizzy and gasping for air. “What the hell?” he choked, panic clawing its way up his throat as he scrambled out of bed on shaky legs.
The room spun wildly, nausea surging up from his stomach. He barely managed to keep upright, gripping the edge of the mattress for support.
The lump under the quilt moved again, but this time it was more deliberate, and Brick watched in horror as Devon emerged from beneath it with all the nonchalance of someone waking up in their own bed after a nap.
His hair was mussed up from sleep, stray strands sticking out at odd angles while others fell lazily across his forehead.
He rubbed at his jaw absently before yawning loudly. “Morning,” he drawled, his voice carrying that smug undertone that Brick had always hated. He reached up casually and adjusted the hat atop his head like it belonged there.
Brick stared, mouth agape, eyes unblinking, as Devon leaned back against the headboard, the quilt pooled at his waist, exposing a bare chest and chiseled abs.
“Hey,” he said, cocking a brow quizzically before frowning at the look of sheer horror plastered across Brick’s face. “Relax, man,” he added with an exaggerated sigh before rubbing his temples dramatically like he had all day to deal with this mess. “You got any Advil? My head’s killing me.”
“Sure,” Brick snapped after several long moments spent trying—and failing—to process what was happening. His chest felt tight, like a vice was squeezing the air out of him, and panic clawed at his stomach, making his words come out uneven. “Why are you here?”
Devon didn’t flinch. His grin widened into a lazy and infuriatingly smug smile that filled his face. He was too calm, too knowing, as though he held a secret Brick wasn’t ready to hear. “You saying you don’t remember?” He laughed, the kind of laugh that made Brick’s skin prickle. Hell, it wasn’t just a laugh, it was a game, a twisted joke where Brick was the punchline.
“What... what do you mean I don’t remember?” Brick stumbled over his words as his frown deepened, confusion etched into every line of his face. He could feel his mind scrambling for memories that just weren’t there, blank spaces where last night should’ve been. “Did we…” His voice faltered, his throat tightening around the question. “I mean, I don’t…” He swallowed again, shaking his head as if it might shake loose some sliver of clarity. “I don’t do this. I’m not… why can’t I fuckin’ remember what happened?”
Devon stretched out like a cat, the cap on his head threatening to fall off but somehow staying put. “Well,” he drawled, dragging the word out as though savoring this moment, “we… y’know, we kept the party going after the club.” His grin curled into something wicked. “Tequila equals fun times, brah.” His voice dipped suggestively as he stretched his arms above his head, flexing his muscles.
Brick flinched. He could almost feel himself trembling, every nerve on edge, as Devon’s gaze seemed to strip him more bare than he already was. “And what the fuck does that mean?” he demanded.
Devon’s grin widened—which technically shouldn’t have been possible—and he laughed before swinging his legs off the bed.
He stood up, completely naked and utterly unashamed as he stretched yet again. The morning light caught every plane of his body, highlighting him like some kind of goddamn sculpture.
Brick turned away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.
“Look,” Devon said casually, as if they were discussing nothing more serious than breakfast plans. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a quick shower before I head off.” He tilted his head and studied Brick’s expression, and for the first time since they’d met, the normal glimmer of amusement had faded. “You sure you’re okay? Only you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh, man…” Brick sunk down onto the bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His hands went straight to his head, fingers digging into his temples, trying to will away the pounding ache pulsing at the back of his skull. “Fuck.”
Devon chuckled—a sound that irritated Brick much more than it should. He plucked the cap off his head with a flourish, then with an exaggerated bow, leaned over and placed it atop Brick’s disheveled hair before stepping back with a wink. “Hey, cowboy… don’t worry.” He sauntered toward the bathroom without looking back. “You were great.”
The bathroom door clicked shut before Brick could muster any kind of response—not that he actually had one. He sat for a moment, staring blankly at the floor.
You were great.
His stomach twisted violently. Fuck. He buried his face in his hands, his elbows digging into his bare thighs hard enough to leave marks.
He didn’t care.
The pillow he held precariously balanced across his lap slipped to the floor, leaving him fully exposed in every sense of the word. His hands moved to instinctively probe at himself—his thigh first, then around to his butt—searching for anything unusual: soreness, bruising… some freakin’ clue about what happened.
There was nothing. No physical evidence to explain why everything felt so wrong. It was almost as if someone had taken an eraser and scrubbed everything past midnight from his mind.
“Shit,” he breathed out slowly, then reached for his phone, which lay on the dresser. The screen lit up as he touched it and displayed Ethan’s name near the top of his call list. Unanswered.
He hit redial without thinking. “C’mon…” he whispered as the phone rang once… twice… three times before clicking to voicemail.
“Parker—leave a message.” Ethan’s voice sounded familiar though somewhat tinny through the speaker before it cut off abruptly with a beep.
“Fuck!” Brick hissed, ending the call and tossing the phone onto the bed where it bounced once before settling against the pillows.
His spacious apartment felt oppressive now, quiet except for two sounds: the shower running in rhythmic bursts from the bathroom and Brick’s own ragged breaths filling the bedroom.
He leaned back and let his shoulders press against the side of the bed.
His skull pounded and nausea roiled in his gut as a black hole swallowed up all the details from last night. Flashes came back in pieces: the bright strobe lights, way too many shots of tequila lined up on the bar, the girls laughing… but then… then there was nothing.
“What the fuck did I do?”
The water stopped, and the bathroom door clicked open. The sound was sharp in the stillness, followed by the faint squeak of damp feet on the floor, the shuffling of fabric, and a weary sigh.
Brick’s eyes snapped open, pupils contracting against the light as a shadow moved past the bedroom doorway—a fleeting silhouette that sent a fresh wave of unease through him.
Then there was the unmistakable clink of the front door, the lock snapping shut.
Devon was gone. Silent as a ghost, he’d vanished into the morning without so much as a goodbye.
Brick was alone. His cap was laid on the floor, almost mocking him—like it knew something he didn’t.
He rubbed at his temples, leaving red streaks on his skin. Tequila doubles—oh, man… he remembered those clearly enough. Devon’s grin? Yeah, that too was burned into his brain, sharp and gleaming like a knife.
The girls… them leaving… that was one of the fuzzier parts, and beyond that… there was nothing.
The room felt hostile now, each object a piece of evidence in some grotesque crime scene. Tangled sheets spilled over the bed like discarded skin. One lone sock dangled precariously off the corner of the mattress while the top of the dresser was a battlefield of half-filled shot glasses.
Brick’s boots rested against the wall near the door, one upright and stoic, the other toppled on its side like it had given up halfway through guard duty.
“What the fuck happened to me?” he muttered as he stumbled to his feet, grabbing the dresser for balance as he made his way to the window.
The blinds clattered loudly when he yanked them shut, plunging the room into shadows. The dimness dulled some of the blinding glare but did nothing to ease the nausea twisting his stomach into knots.
For a moment, he caught his own reflection in the mirror—pale skin with dark crescents hanging heavy beneath bloodshot eyes stared back at him.
His stomach lurched at the sight of a stranger wearing his face, and he instinctively pressed a hand to his mouth as bile threatened to rise.
Where were Abbey and Lisa? Wafts of their perfume still filled his nostrils, and he could picture them clearly. Their bare shoulders shining under neon lights as they pressed against him on the dance floor. They’d been all over him, their hands sliding across his chest, laughter spilling from their lips as tequila burned its way down their throats.
And Devon…
That grin held secrets Brick decided he didn’t want to know. “Let’s make it a night to remember,” he had said, smooth enough to slide right under Brick’s defenses.
How easily he’d fallen for his charm. Too much fucking tequila—that part wasn’t new, but this… this wasn’t anywhere close to being normal.
Hangovers didn’t erase entire nights or leave you naked in bed with a man you barely knew.
Nothing felt wrong—not physically—but that did nothing to soothe his spiraling thoughts. “We couldn’t have… could we?”
Devon’s laugh echoed in his mind. “You were great.” The memory was like a slap in the face, and Brick’s breath hitched as panic surged up from within him. “No,” he swallowed, shaking his head more forcefully. “No, no fuckin’ way.”
His phone suddenly buzzed—an intrusion that made him jump. “Ethan? Please be Ethan?—”
It wasn’t.
Lisa. The text glared back at him like an accusation.
Fun night? Sorry we bailed. U ok?
“Fun night?” Brick repeated bitterly as his thumb hovered over the screen. He held it for several seconds before he tossed it aside with a frustrated growl, too rattled to even think about replying.
His bare feet scuffed the floor as he paced back and forth.
Devon... fucking Devon. That smug bastard had stayed behind after everyone else had left, but why? What had he done? Did he dose me?
Brick’s stomach rolled, and the bathroom called like some cruel oracle waiting to deliver bad news.
He stepped out of the bedroom, afraid of what fresh horrors might greet him, and crossed the hall to the bathroom. He braced against the sink, splashing cold water onto feverish skin.
No amount of water could wash away what had been done—or undo what he thought might’ve been done.
“You were great.” The words continued to linger like poison dripping from an open wound—taunting him with half-truths wrapped in lies.
His throat tightened as he again stared at his fractured reflection before turning away.
Dread gnawed at every corner of Brick’s sanity as he padded back to the bedroom.
Snatching up his phone, he redialed Ethan’s number. His knuckles almost turned white around the case as each ring stabbed at the quiet. He felt alone and was desperate for answers.
“Parker. You know what to do.”
The call went straight to voicemail once more, and Brick stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the end call button as if it might somehow summon Ethan. He tossed the phone down and let out a sharp exhale, frustration bubbling in his chest like water in a pan threatening to spill over.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “What the hell happened last night?”