Chapter 7
STRIPPED
Dad! Dad, stop!
He can’t hear me because I’m screaming it in my mind and not out loud.
I can’t ever seem to make it come out. But he hits my ma anyway.
I stay right where I am, listening to the slaps coming from behind the couch and the dishes crashing to the floor in the tiny kitchen.
If I get up, I’ll hurt him. If I look over my shoulder, I’ll see the blood, and she’ll yell at me.
Dad! Please, Dad, stop fucking hurting her!
My eyes shoot open as air saws in and out of my lungs.
Sweat clings to me, my sheets are soaked through, and no matter how much I tell myself it’s a nightmare, I can still hear the dishes and the slaps.
Scrubbing a palm over my face, I swipe away some of the sweat and tears, knowing I need to call my ma.
She’s probably not going to want to hear from me, still holding onto that fucked up viewpoint that I abandoned her to be a musician, even though she was the one who kicked me out.
She might’ve cut me off, but even though I shouldn’t, I still care. I still wonder if she’s okay. If a new guy is hurting her, too? Seems she always ends up with a new version of my dad.
Rolling over to grab my phone, I unplug it from the charger and dial her number. It rings a few times before she answers.
“What.” Not a question. Not: Hi, how are you? One word. What.
“Hey, Ma,” I start. “Sorry for calling so late.”
“You know I can’t sleep. Too much pain.”
My stomach sinks. This shit again? She’s always in pain, but I think she just loves how dead the pills make her. “Sorry to hear that. I just wanted to…check on you, I guess?”
“Why? So you can tell me I’m a drug addict again? Tell me I’m a piece of shit mother?”
“No, Ma,” I say through a deep sigh. “Are you okay?”
“Of course, I’m not okay. I’m alone in this fucking trailer with no money and no medicine. No one cares that I’m going to die in this hellhole.”
I won’t argue. Nothing I say helps. She doesn’t want help or love—just misery, and to pass it on to others. I should stop calling. It helps neither of us. “Alright, Ma. I’ll let you get some rest. Sorry again for calling.”
“No, you’re not.” She hangs up.
I keep the phone to my ear for a few seconds before I let it drop.
Pressure builds on my chest as my stomach cramps.
I hate these nightmares—hate even more that I feed into them and call the very person responsible for putting them there.
For the past three nights, I’ve been plagued by old memories of my dad beating the shit out of my ma.
I don’t have a clue what triggered it either.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I have an idea.
They used to be a regular thing back when I was running amok in Long Beach. Getting into fights, making people bleed. Something would snap inside me, and I swear I’d be taken right back to that stupid, cigarette-burned couch. I don’t have time for this crap, though. I have too much work to do.
After shaking off the nightmare, I roll over, grab my phone, and check my missed texts. I see one from Michael. I sit up, yawning, and open up the thread.
Michael: I don’t know what to do with him.
Michael: Attached image.
My eyes bulge out of my skull. Lex is passed out on Michael’s couch, and his shoes are off. Why are his shoes off? Even the damn socks! I can see his purple toenails!
The texts came in about thirty minutes ago so naturally, I spiral.
Every possible scenario slams into my skull at lightspeed.
They fucked. Michael is a liar. Lex tried to seduce him and failed. They’ve been screwing for years, and now they’ve been found.
“Whoa,” I wheeze. “Holy hell.” I slap my forehead. Unhinged, much?
Me: What happened? Sorry, I was knocked out.
A few minutes pass while I head to the restroom for a piss. Just as I’m flushing, he replies.
Michael: We ran into each other down at the Moon. He was wasted, so I offered to drive him home, but he fell asleep in my car before I got his address. So now he’s on my couch. I don’t know what to do, and Kelly ain’t answering.
Me: I’ll be there in ten.
Michael: Thanks. Sorry about this.
I am so tempted to ask why his fucking shoes and socks are off, but I barely refrain.
I don’t know what’s fueling my jealousy anymore. Is it that Michael might like men and lied to me? Is it that, despite hating Lex, I can’t stand him with anyone else? Or is it because I have these fucked up feelings for both of them, and they chose to cut me out?
Damn it. I need to get a grip.
The entire drive over to Michael’s apartment, I wrestled with logic. Beat my emotions into a bloody pulp because they’re all over the place and wrong. I told myself everything was innocent—friendly, even.
Out of everyone, Michael has always been easier on Lex. He tries to understand his actions rather than villainize them. While his approach is admirable, he’s kept his distance. He doesn’t get the same heat that I do. So, of course, he doesn’t know the real person he’s invited into his home.
The pep talk worked, for the most part. I made it all the way up to his front door, firmly believing I was just out of my mind and nothing was afoot.
That even though I can’t stand Lex’s behavior, I still give a fuck if he’s okay.
I still think he’s worth checking on and tucking into bed safely.
But all of that goes right out the window when my best friend opens his front door.
Michael is shirtless, hair dripping from a recent shower, and his cheeks are flushed.
“He’s on the couch.”
I ignore his body—those toned pecs and washboard abs—and bite my tongue.
Maybe I should ask Oli for his therapist’s number.
Clearly, I need one. My stomach twists and cramps while an elephant sits on my chest. I breathe through my nose and move into his apartment.
The first thing I do is seek out Lex’s shoes and socks.
One of the black Creepers is in the kitchen, the other is halfway under the TV stand in the living room.
Like they were thrown in a fit of passion. I don’t see any socks.
People kick off their shoes in a hurry when cock is involved.
You’re a psychopath.
“I can’t get him to wake up. I’ve checked a few times, and he’s breathing. If I’d known he was such a lightweight, I wouldn’t have gotten him drinks.”
He bought Lex drinks?
I pause my search, holding both shoes now, and glance back at my best friend. He seems far too relaxed. I squint, wishing I had telepathy so I could read his thoughts. “You got him drunk?”
“He was already drunk when I got there.”
“Where?” I demand. “You guys went out? Together?”
Giving me a dry look, he folds his arms and makes his chest flex. Fucker. “I went. Alone. He just so happened to be at the Moon, pouting. I felt bad, so I hung out with him.”
I hate this development.
Instead of asking any more questions—because I already look like some deranged boyfriend—I finally approach the couch.
It’s a shock to my system. I’ve never seen Lex asleep before, and despite being in an alcohol induced coma, he looks angelic.
That resting bitch face I’ve grown to love and hate is nowhere to be seen.
His thick orange lashes kiss the tops of his cheeks, those full lips are parted slightly, and his cute button nose whistles with every inhale.
His hair is a mess, not weighed down with product, and I know how soft the strands are.
It does something to me—seeing him like this.
Unguarded, vulnerable. It’s like getting a glimpse into the past. Almost as if I’m seeing that guy he used to be…
or pretended to be, anyway. A swell of protectiveness pushes through all my bullshit, smoothing my raised hackles and calming some of the unease inside me.
It hits so hard that a confession slips past my armor.
“I hurt him today,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”
“How?” Michael asks, walking over.
“We were moving the new equipment, and I dropped a box of cymbals on him.” I spin my thumb ring. “Scraped up his hands real good.”
He hums. “I noticed them, but I didn’t ask.”
“He’s just so short,” I muse. “Fucked me up for a few seconds. He had to yell at me to get me to snap out of it.”
“Are you having nightmares again?”
The fact that he cares enough to ask lifts some of the weight off my chest. Michael is the only one who knows about them.
When I first joined Dreadful, he got his dad to agree to me staying with them.
We both got some shitty jobs so we could grab a one-bedroom apartment eventually, so he’s seen them plenty—he's shaken me awake because I couldn’t stop screaming.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s fine, though.”
There’s a long pause as we both stare at a sleeping Lex, completely oblivious to the tension suffocating the room. It’s me who breaks the stalemate because I always look to Michael first. “I’m sorry I’ve been a dick.”
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he slumps his shoulders. “No, I’ve been the dick.”
“It’s warranted,” I tell him. “I keep pushing the issue.”
“And I keep handling it like shit.”
We share a smile, thinking the same thing—his last birthday. The band thinks it was just another fight. Even as best friends, we’re bad with words. I got jealous, called his hookup a bitch, he slapped me, then it escalated.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.
“Me too,” he whispers and nudges me with his elbow. “What are we going to do about him, though?”
“Is it wrong that I like him better when he’s dead to the world?”
Michael chuckles, his eyes glimmer with something. Fondness, maybe? “He’s not so bad.”
That makes me scoff. “You don’t know him like I do, man. Where the fuck are his socks?” I hold up the shoes.
“Oh, I got them over here.” He disappears into his bedroom, and my eyebrow cocks. When he returns, he informs me, “He missed the damn urinal at the bar.”
I glance down at the shoes I’m holding. “Oh, that’s fucking gross.” I drop them to the floor in a panic, and Michael laughs louder, handing me the plastic bag holding very wet socks. Using the tips of my fingers, I shove both into the bag along with the socks. “Should we just toss 'em?”
“I mean, I would.” He shrugs. “But he loves those shoes. Maybe let him decide when he’s sober.”
We both head to the kitchen so I can wash my damn hands, and the man leans against the counter with his palms flat. It’s cruel, but up until a few years ago, this is how we were together. Open. No shame. The only reason it’s an issue now is that I want more from him. In a way, I always have.
But it’s not in the cards for me.
My eyes tear away from his muscles and back over to the couch. Lex moans in his sleep. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it does not,” Michael confirms, hurrying to grab a popcorn bowl from his cupboard.
We rush back to the couch, Michael angling the bowl under Lex’s face just as he rolls to his side and vomits. I kneel on the other side of Michael and push the hair from Lex’s sweaty forehead. Lex grips Michael’s wrists in a death grip, gagging.
“Oh fuck,” he grits, the stench of alcohol permeating the air. “Why is this happening?” he slurs after spitting.
“Rite of passage,” I tease, and Lex’s amber eyes flick up to mine. “Hey, princess.”
He groans and vomits some more. I keep petting his head, not bothering to look into it more than being a decent person, while Michael praises him for hurling. It’s…almost like we’ve done this before.
“Once it’s all out, you’ll feel better, okay?”
My stomach flutters at the deep timbre of his voice and the way he so smoothly comforts our band manager. “Do this often?” I ask Michael.
He snorts. “Shut up.”
“This is how I die,” Lex says after a while. “It smells so bad.”
“Do you think there’s more?” I ask him.
Shaking his head, he flops onto his back, eyes closed. “Grab a washcloth,” Michael tells me.
I do as he says, returning moments later to wipe Lex’s mouth. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, sounding clearer now.
“You keeled over in his car before telling him where you live.”
“And he called you?” Ah, there’s the Lex I know so well. Dick.
“Yes, he called me.”
“Like you’d ever help me,” he growls under his breath. “I’ll get an Uber home.”
Michael looks between the two of us. “No one is going anywhere. It’s 3am, and I have to be up in four hours. You can stay on the couch, Dev can take the spare bedroom.”
“Works for me,” I say easily.
Lex stares defiantly at both of us. “This feels less like common decency and more like a hostage situation.”
I stand up and shake my head, laughing at his audacity. “Trust me, if this were a hostage situation, I’d already have you tied up.”
Michael bristles, Lex gasps, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
Shouldn’t have said that.