The Run
Cross POV
Whiskey burned all the fucking way down. Cross tipped that bottle up and took another long swig. The noise of the house party got louder and louder until it was nothing more than an irritation in his ear.
Drunk, and with his vision swimming, Cross weaved through the people. A couple called his name, but he ignored them altogether.
Right then, he just needed to get away.
That’s why he’d left his fucking house in the first place. Why had Zeke invited so many damn people?
The heat crawled beneath his leather jacket in an almost smothering way. He could feel the thumping in his throat—signaling something bad was coming. He moved a little bit faster, if only because he didn’t want his friend to have to clean a mess.
Cross barely made it through the backdoor before he lost his lunch all over the stone tiles. Whiskey burned coming up the same way it did going down, but it didn’t taste half as fucking good this time around.
“Oh, shit!”
Someone else laughed.
“You okay, man?”
Cross blinked, and put his hands to his knees. He couldn’t remember how old he was the last time he had drank enough liquor to make him sick. Maybe fourteen, or thirteen.
“Fuck,” he hissed, spitting to the ground.
The laughter of the people gathered outside only grated on his nerves even more. He didn’t like to make a spectacle of himself. It just wasn’t what he did.
Yet, there he was.
Being laughed at.
Being watched.
Fuck.
All he wanted right then was not to feel. To be numb inside and out. To breathe, but not feel like it took effort with every single breath.
He didn’t want to hurt.
Not in his heart, or his soul.
He only needed to be numb.
“Here, man,” somebody said.
Cross looked up to find one of Zeke’s older friends standing next to him. The guy with the gray-blue eyes held out a smoldering joint. The heady scent of weed made his stomach feel even heavier all at once.
The guy chuckled like he could see Cross’s disgust.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “This strain has a strong smell, but it does wonders for making nausea go away, or just making you feel better. It’s yours if you want it.”
Cross smacked his mouth.
Vomit still lingered there.
He eyed the joint, and swallowed hard.
Drugs weren’t usually his thing. Sometimes he’d take a couple of hits off a joint when he was at a party, and Zeke was looking out for him. That was really it, though.
He didn’t make it a regular thing.
“I don’t want to think or feel anything at all,” Cross said.
The guy nodded. “Yeah, it’s good for that, too.”
That was all Cross needed to hear. He snagged the joint, and took the first drag. He didn’t cough or choke, and instead, chased the smoke back with another drink of burning whiskey.
Numbness was the goal.
He needed it.
Something shifted beside Cross, and his drug and drink induced brain was slow to react. He should have been down for the count—a foggy memory of Zeke pulling him off the couch and guiding him to the bedroom lingered in the back of his mind.
Wasn’t he in bed?
Soft.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Yeah, he was definitely in bed.
Another shift beside him, and Cross finally opened his eyes. He glanced over; his vision still swam with a high and drunk that had not quite let him go, yet. He couldn’t have been in bed for very long. He could still hear the party going on outside the bedroom.
Music.
People laughing.
Someone shouting.
All those thoughts registered to Cross first, and the woman staring at him registered second. He stared at her for a long while wondering what in the hell she was doing in the bedroom with him. He felt her hands first—gliding over his bare chest, and then beneath his boxer-briefs.
Zeke had made him get undressed.
Puke on your clothes, man.
“What the—”
“Hey,” the girl said.
Then, she was on him.
Cross barely even got a word in, or understood what happened, and the chick was in his lap, and looking down at him. Her hands stroked his dick, and because he couldn’t control the reaction of his body when somebody just rubbed on him enough, he hardened.
“Like that, do you?”
No.
She was pretty enough, sure.
Blonde.
Brown-eyed.
Not Catherine.
All things that worked in her favor.
Cross was still fucked up—way too messed up to be doing this. And who the hell just came into a bedroom and climbed on somebody that was sleeping?
“Get off,” Cross said.
“Don’t be like that.”
Her fingers tightened.
“Besides,” she added, “I think you like it.”
“Get off.”
Somewhere in his hazy mind, shit became clear.
This was how easy it could be for somebody to do shit like this. To take advantage. To hurt, and think it was okay.
It pissed him off, and made him sick at the same time.
“Get the fuck off,” Cross snarled.
His words were still slurred.
His strength was not up to par.
He still shoved the girl away from him. So hard, in fact, that she fell off the side of the bed. The thump cleared his foggy brain in an instant. The haze wasn’t gone, but he didn’t feel entirely high or drunk anymore.
The hangover tomorrow was going to be a bitch.
“Asshole,” the girl said.
“Get out.”
Cross rolled over in the bed, and yanked the blankets up over his head.
“And lock the fucking door,” he added in a mumble.
“Cross, your phone is ringing again.”
“Leave it,” Cross said.
Zeke still picked up the device and checked the home page. “It’s your father.”
“Fuck, man, I said to leave it.”
“Shit, all right. Relax.”
Cross went back to cleaning the nine-millimeter. Zeke never took proper care of his guns, and it drove Cross crazy.
“Dad called me a couple times today,” Zeke said.
“Yeah.”
“Asked about you.”
“Yeah,” Cross repeated dryly.
“Wanted to know when you were going to head home.”
“Yeah.”
“Cross,” Zeke said quietly.
Cross looked up from the gun, and found his friend was staring him down. “What?”
“You’ve been here a week.”
“And I might be here for another week.” Cross shrugged. “Unless you’ve got something to say about that, I mean.”
“You know you’re welcome to stay here any fucking time you want, man.”
“All right.”
“Except my father said your mother is worried, and Calisto is two seconds away from sending somebody after your ass to take you home. He knows where you are—that’s probably the only reason he hasn’t done anything yet.”
“Probably,” Cross agreed.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
No.
Yes.
Really, Cross didn’t know.
He didn’t know anything.
At the moment, his entire life felt like one big fucking mess. A shit show. Catherine was … gone. That’s what he knew. And with her went a piece of him. A giant chunk of his heart that was supposed to be hers because he was fucking stupid. Like an idiot, he had handed over another piece of himself without even thinking about what that might mean.
He didn’t consider she might hurt him again.
Because love.
Love was bullshit.
Not a lie, no.
It couldn’t be a lie when he felt it. He knew it was real. Every single part of him loved Catherine Marcello. That didn’t mean he had to like it a whole lot right now. It certainly didn’t feel very damn good.
So yeah.
Love was garbage.
“You know,” Zeke said, “you didn’t really tell me what happened. You just showed up, got drunk for three days, smoked up in between, and slept a lot. I mean, today’s the first day you actually got up and did something. And all you did was bitch about my gun and clean it, man. You don’t … talk.”
“Is that what you want, or something?”
“What?”
“To talk about my feelings? Menstruate once a month? Grow vaginas? The way I feel isn’t up for conversation, Zeke.”
His friend just shook his head. “Christ, you are such an asshole sometimes. You know I just want to help, right? That’s it.”
Helping him would be to leave him alone. Or, to be quiet. Helping wouldn’t be asking questions, or making Cross feel like shit all over again. Helping was a lot of things, but it wasn’t anything Zeke was offering at the moment.
Cross didn’t tell his friend any of those things.
Instead, he said, “Catherine broke up with me. I don’t want to talk about it—there’s nothing to say, but I don’t want to be at home right now. I needed to be somewhere else. Here I am.”
Or rather, he couldn’t be home.
Cross needed some time. He didn’t know what for, really. Maybe to recharge, or to get shit straight in his head. Something … He just needed time away from being the principe. Time away from being his mother and step-father’s son, and his sister’s big brother. Time away from a place that constantly reminded him of Catherine for a million and one different reasons.
Maybe then when he went back, shit would be okay.
Except it probably wouldn’t be.
So was his fucking life.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Zeke said.
Cross grumbled under his breath, and then asked, “What now?”
“Dad’s coming over today. Said he might be able to convince you it’s time to go home. Thought you might like a heads up.”
Zeke cocked a brow when Cross glanced at his friend. He heard Zeke’s unspoken words—the ones he had to read between the damn lines.
Here’s your chance to go if you need or want to before he gets here.
“Got another couch for me to sleep on for the week?” Cross asked.
Zeke shrugged. “I can find you somewhere.”
“Yeah, do that.”
“I should warn you, though …”
“What?”
“Dad said if you keep this shit up, Calisto might just send someone out to hunt you down and bring you home anyway.”
Cross made a dismissive noise under his breath. “He can try.”
“Wake your ass up, principe! I know you’re in here.”
Cross groaned, and yanked the blankets higher over his head. He wasn’t even sure whose fucking couch he was sleeping on that morning—it had been changing from day to day. Whoever had a party, or whoever invited him to stay.
He wasn’t fucking picky.
He just didn’t want to go home.
“Cross, don’t make me come further into that house.”
“Hey … hey, man, wake up.”
Somebody shook Cross’s shoulder hard enough to wake him from the hungover stupor he was currently in. The blinding sunlight coming in from the windows told him it was well into the day. The sight of the light instantly made his stomach want to revolt.
Too much liquor.
Too much of everything else.
Fuck his life.
“All right, Cross, don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you.”
“Man, get up before that guy tears my fucking house apart.”
Cross looked up at the guy standing over him—Tim, Jim, or fuck, who knew? “Who?”
“Principe, your step-father is waiting outside. Make it easy on me, or I have permission to stuff your ass in the trunk of my car. Compliments of the boss.”
Fuck.
“Go away, Rick,” Cross snarled.
Stupid ass enforcer.
The guy still wouldn’t leave Cross alone.
He’d made it three weeks. Three weeks of just … being. Alone. No responsibilities. Recharging. Getting used to being just him without Catherine.
It was not a nice place to be, he learned.
“Fuck.”
That was all the guy who owned the couch said.
Then, the blanket that was covering Cross was ripped off. Cross found himself locked in a staring contest with Rick, but he refused to move.
Rick spoke first.
“Again, your step-father is outside. He says enough is enough. You’ve been gone long enough—not answering calls, or checking in. Scaring your mother half to death. He’s done with your nonsense. Move your ass without me needing to do it, or I will personally stuff your stupid self into the trunk and drive you home. I’m sure it’ll be a nice lesson for you, you spoiled little shit.”
Cross glowered more.
Rick was unaffected. “Get up.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hard way it is, then.”
Cross cocked a brow at the enforcer. “You touch me, and you die.”
“Are you going to get up?”
“Is Cal really outside?”
“I guess you’re either going to get up and find out for yourself, or I’m going to carry you out there. Which one do you want to choose?”
Cross walked himself out there.
Calisto was waiting.
Neither of them spoke for days after, though.