I forced my eyes open wide enough to try to buckle my seat belt. The smirking dude behind the wheel watched me struggle through several attempts before taking over and easily snapping the tab into the lock. “I’m pretty sure you’re dehydrated. If you down too much, too fast, you will end up throwing it all up and doing more harm than good. So, for now, we pace.”
“Fine. Whatever. Can you just be quiet now?” I decided to lead by example, hoping he’d follow suit. Besides, it helped me focus on other things—like breathing without fear.
I counted slowly to ten on each inhalation. Held for ten. Exhaled to the same count. The ultimate plan was to keep going until I fell asleep or was interrupted. I was strongly hoping for, but not counting on, the former. It had been a long time since I had to employ any sort of meditation exercise to deal with anxiety. But tried-and-true relaxation techniques, like old friends, were familiar no matter how much time passed between visits. And right now, I needed all the friends I could count on.
But nearly immediately, bad feelings from the past nine days came rushing in.
Really bad ones.
Loneliness and despair ran out in front of the pack. I was desperate to cope with them better by asking about Rio but had no right to do so in this crazy condition. That was what my twisted brain kept telling me, anyway. Besides, talking about her would make me miss her more. And missing her would make me ache to be near her. But being this close to her, right in the same city and not getting to hold her in my arms…damn it, not getting to fuck her…
I groaned inwardly. I needed to stop this self-torture right the hell now. I was only making things worse. Already, it was nearly impossible to resist calling her. But doing that would just be unfair, ultimately to us both, and I knew it with crushing clarity.
But fucking her would feel so good right now…
Okay, forget the inner flogging. I went straight for thumping my head against the passenger-side window. Somehow, in some way, I had to get a goddamned grip on this stuff.
Had the experiences of the past week really reduced me to the level of my captors? I didn’t doubt it. I felt like a barbarian with a lukewarm IQ, even though I was currently sporting a Balenciaga T-shirt and coordinating joggers. Fucking Elijah. But how did the saying go? You could put lipstick on a pig…
Yeah, something along those lines.
My rudimentary line of thinking and pathetically weak bearing hadn’t changed how I felt for Rio Gibson, though. It might have made it worse if I let myself have a moment of honesty. I groaned, thinking of all the truths I didn’t want to face right now. Perhaps because higher thought hadn’t been an option for the last week or so.
“You okay, my brother?” Elijah asked in his smooth voice, darting glances between the freeway and me as we made our way home.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just need a long shower and a bed. I want to sleep for a week.”
Elijah grunted. “Not a bad action plan, buddy.”
“Yeah, but also not realistic. I’m sure Bas will have other plans for me right away. He’ll demand me back at my desk first thing in the morning.”
“Grant.” The silence was accentuated with at least three me-windshield-me circuits of his glare. Finally, he huffed an exasperated, “Come on.”
“‘Come on’ what? You know the man as well as I do, right?”
“Absolutely. But I’m telling you right now, he’s been as worried about you as I have been.”
I made a dramatic show of looking around the interior of the car. “Yeah, I can tell. Worried sick.”
“You’re not being fair, but I’m not going to defend him. He’s a big boy, so that’s on him. But he doesn’t even know you’re back. I didn’t tell anyone.” He held out a hand like he was about to stop me from protesting. Maybe he was spot-on with the instinct. I wasn’t really sure of my own reaction on that, so I couldn’t blame him for the precaution. “I thought you might need some time to readjust.”
Years of a brother-close friendship had planted Banks right inside my head. The bastard plucked thoughts from freshly sowed seedlings in my mind’s garden like I didn’t have a say on the topic at all. A lot of times, I was damn grateful for it. Today, not so much. Because this stabbed at my mental acuity—a position I despised being in, at all costs. I was just grateful Elijah not only saw all the bad shit going on in my head but was willing to cover my ass until I was at full capacity again.
Which all basically meant that I should be saying something by now. At the very least, giving him a grateful grunt. But instead, I was pissed off. No, not just that. I was a triggered basket case and apparently wearing it like a sandwich board. Step right up, folks. See the once-great Grant Twombley. Now, you will barely recognize the man.
What a difference a day really made. Or nine, in this case.
God, I was a miserable son of a bitch. Just another reason why I couldn’t see my girl yet. I had no idea what the last nine days had been like for her, but she’d have to make it to ten. Maybe longer. I couldn’t face her until I pulled my head out of my ass. She didn’t need to see me like this, and she certainly didn’t deserve to be exposed to this weak, muddled version of me.
“Honey, we’re home.”
Elijah’s deep voice woke me from a fitful dream, confirming the old relaxation technique must’ve finally worked. I woke with a start from my drifting sleep, and just in time. The last thing I needed were more embarrassing leftovers from this fucked-up experience. It was bad enough I was going to have to deal with them myself. Others didn’t need to know about it too.
My body hurt like I’d been in a street fight when I unfolded from my buddy’s front seat. The distance between the car and the door to his luxurious Malibu home seemed to have tripled since I was here the last time, too.
Wait…
“Banks,” I barked. “Why are we here? Didn’t we talk about this? I really just want to sleep in my own bed, you know? Be among my own stuff.” And goddammit, my king-sized shower.
I’d taken enough recent cracks to my skull to accept that confusion was a normal state of mind. But I did tell the big jerk to take me straight home. Might have even said it before he handed me the thousand-dollar workout shit. Or loungewear. Whatever the catalogues were calling it these days.
Elijah stood in front of his car, kicking at imaginary pebbles. “I’m aware of what you asked, man. But…”
“But what, damn it?”
“I’m worried about you.”
I swung the passenger door closed. The panel barely made a pathetic slap, let alone the angry whomp I’d intended. “Well, don’t be.”
“You can say the words all you want,” he snapped. “It’s not going to make me stop caring about your well-being. You’re dehydrated and exhausted, and I have no idea the last time you’ve eaten.”
He wasn’t wrong, but I had to speak up. “I’m sure Rio wouldn’t mind—”
“Grant, come on.”
“What?”
“I’m not convinced the woman is fit to take care of herself…or even that little cat.” He pushed his front door open and followed me inside while he finished his thought. “Definitely not both at the same time.”