“My fucking head is about to explode.” Player dared to open his eyes, trying to squint, seeing Maestro through the shimmering fog with the strange backdrop of lobsters riding spinning waterspouts in the ocean over his shoulder.
Maestro was a big man with wide shoulders and vivid gray eyes that could look like liquid silver when he became intense. His hair was dark, streaked with silver, and like Player, he wore it longer. He appeared to be very gentle and soft-spoken, but that hid a very dominant personality. Right now, he urged Player out of the truck into the curling fog, where his free hand held the truck keys—but the keys were already morphing into a pocket watch. For a moment, a White Rabbit appeared behind Maestro, looking over his shoulder at the watch and shaking his head, those long ears flopping as he did so. His nose wrinkled, and worry gathered in his eyes. Then the rabbit began to morph into someone else altogether, and Player’s breath hitched. He hastily concentrated on the watch.
The watch was intricate. Made of gold. He would never forget that particular watch. He fixated on it. He remembered every detail of it. The way it worked so precisely. The elaborate transparent design. The two covers. The golden chain and swivel fob. As he looked at it lying in Maestro’s hand, it grew in size so he could see the images imprinted in the cover. He could hear the seventeen ruby jewels working to ensure perfect precision. He had to stop. He couldn’t look at that watch or think about it.
“My head hurts like a mother, Maestro, I’ve got to close my eyes. Get me inside, will you?” He tried to keep his voice as even as possible, tried to convey that he was really shaky from a migraine, not that his brain was fractured and that any minute he could royally fuck everyone up.
“Sure, Player,” Maestro said. “Keep your head down. I’ll get you inside. The place is packed,” he warned. “A lot of noise.”
Player squeezed his eyes closed tight. He couldn’t afford to make the pocket watch part of any of this scenario. He was already skating too close to being out of control. “Can’t look at anyone,” he admitted—and it was a hard admission. He didn’t like any of his brothers to know how truly fucked up he was. “Get me to a bathroom. Need a shower to clear my head. I’ll go to bed and be fine. Throat’s sore. Need water and some Tylenol.”
“I’ll get you there and bring some water and Tylenol to the bathroom. Let’s go.”
Player stayed right in step with him, his eyes on the ground. The cement he’d helped pour moved, narrowing, rippling under their feet. Once he took his gaze from the sidewalk, but then he saw the monstrous pocket watch and heard the ticking in time to the lobsters’ clacking, and he preferred the strange dipping and wheeling pathway. He just kept pace with Maestro, trusting his brother, not the images in his head.
The common room was overflowing with partiers. Player tried not to look at them as he and Maestro waded through the half-drunk dancers as they gyrated around one another and the bodies pressing close. He did his best not to inhale as they hurried across the room toward the door that led to the back rooms. He couldn’t take in the scent of sex. Several girls were going down on men, and two were already on their hands and knees calling out for more. He jerked his gaze from the sight, counting over and over in his head. Drinks were on tables, filled to the brim, and they rose in the air and tipped liquid onto the floor and the backs of men and women as Player and Maestro rushed toward the back.
“Shit, brother,” Maestro hissed as laughter erupted all around them. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland strikes again.”
Player’s stomach lurched. He had deliberately cultivated his fellow club members to see the humor in the crazy things that happened when his “migraines” occurred after he went too far using his psychic talent. He couldn’t fault them when they laughed or made light of it. They had no idea how dangerous he was or how much he truly despised the mere mention of that story and every damn memory it dredged up. None of it good. Maestro pulled open the door to the back rooms.
The moment Maestro opened the door, Player could hear women moaning. A few of his brothers were using the rooms, and doors had been left open, something not all that uncommon during a party. The smell of sex was heavy in the confined space of the hall. As they passed an open door, a woman’s voice called out, begging for the queen’s maids to join them for sex. Her partner answered her, “What the hell are you going on about? What queen? What maids?”
Maestro kicked the door closed as they hurried past. “We never should have shown you that old Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland porn, Player,” he said, laughter in his voice. “You gotta stop thinking about that movie.”
Player could have told him it had nothing whatsoever to do with thinking and everything to do with smells, association and his fucked-up, fragmented brain playing tricks. Every open door they passed, Maestro slammed closed with his boot until they were all but sprinting down the rippling floor to the bathroom at the very end of the hallway.
This particular bathroom was considered off-limits during parties to outsiders, and the brothers kept to the rule. Lana and Alena, their sisters, both fully patched members of Torpedo Ink, used that room exclusively, although now they shared it with some of the other members’ wives. Maestro yanked open the door and practically shoved Player inside.
“I’ll be right back with a bottle of water and Tylenol,” Maestro promised and closed the door, leaving Player alone.
The scent of fresh lavender immediately washed the smell of sex away, giving Player a bit of a reprieve. He let himself take a deep breath, inhaling the lavender, taking the scent into his lungs, hoping to chase some of his terrible tension away. Perched on the sink and continuously breathing deeply, he texted Master to tell him he’d made it home safely while he waited for Maestro to return.
Maestro was fast, handing him the water and pills. He also brought him a clean pair of jeans and shirt. “You need me to wait and get you back to your room?”
“Naw, I’m good now. I can make it, no problem. I’ll lock up for the night and just sleep it off. You know I’m good once I’m down,” Player assured, pouring confidence into his voice. He detested that he’d taken Maestro from the party. Worse, it was dangerous for Maestro to spend too much time with him.
“If you’re certain.” Maestro dangled the keys to the truck from his fingers.
At once, Player’s gaze caught and held there, unable to stop, no matter how much he willed his mind to pull away. The keys morphed into the dreaded gold pocket watch, the case swiveling back and forth, nearly mesmerizing Player. The timepiece began to grow in front of his eyes again. He counted faster, forcing himself to turn his entire body away.
Player tossed back the Tylenol and chased it with water. “Absolutely. The shower will help, and then I’m sleeping as long as possible.” By some miracle, he kept from yelling at Maestro to get the fuck out. He kept his voice even and calm.
He didn’t look at Maestro, still counting in his head, hoping his brother would take the hint and get out of there fast. He didn’t trust himself. No one was safe. No one, not even those he loved. Not when he was this bad. He was fortunate in that he had deceived his brothers for so long into thinking he got vicious migraines and nothing was really wrong with him. No one really ever questioned him, and Maestro wanted to get back to the party.