“Garrett?” Paige knocked on the door of the apartment again, for the third time. She’d called him several times, but he didn’t answer, so she’d driven to the clubhouse and Munchkin told her he’d gone home. He also told her that Saint had been arrested...for killing Benjamin Ewell. She’d driven to his apartment then. His bike was in its space, so she was sure he was inside. She didn’t know Garrett or Saint well, but when Saint told her the story of how he and Garrett met, she could not only see how much the big man meant to him, she could hear it in his words—almost touch it in the room. Garrett had tried his best to come off as tough as he was big since she’d met him, but she had a feeling this had to be tearing him up inside. “Garrett, please let me in.” She started to knock again when she heard movement inside and then the lock being disengaged. She waited, but the door still wasn’t being pulled open. “Garrett?” At last, he pulled it open a crack and peered out. All she could see was a bloodshot eye and his shaggy brown hair hanging down over the other one. “Can I come in?”

“For what?” he said. It felt like he’d hit her in the chest.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. Thanks.” He started to close the door and suddenly she was angry. She didn’t know where it came from, but a surge of rage replaced the hurt in her chest and she pushed back against the door.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He pulled the door open wide enough that she could see his face and part of his bare chest. There were no lights on in the apartment and it smelled like weed and alcohol. “I’m not in the mood, Paige.”

“You’re not in the mood for what? I thought we were friends. I thought we saved each other...” Her voice cracked and that pissed her off.

“We did, but I don’t need saving tonight.”

He relaxed his grip on the door, and she pushed it with one hand and brushed past him. Even in the dim light coming through the curtains off the balcony, she could see the three almost empty bottles of whiskey on the coffee table and the ashtray full of roaches. “I can see that,” she said. “Come in and close the door. I’m not leaving.”

“Really not in the mood, Paige,” he said, slurring his words and holding onto the door for support. He was nude from the waist up and wearing a pair of gray, bleach-stained sweatpants. He had no socks on his feet. It was freezing outside; Paige was dressed for the weather and still cold.

“Close the door before you catch pneumonia.”

He snorted. “Maybe it’ll kill me.”

“Doubtful, unless you catch a really good case. You’re too fucking big for a little pneumonia bug to kill you. So come in and close the door; you’re whiney enough healthy.”

“Whiney?” He closed the door, hard. “Did you just call me whiney?”

“I did, and you are. And as long as I’m on a roll with the insults, you stink. You should shower. I’ll clean up in here.”

“I didn’t ask you to clean up. I didn’t even invite you in...”

“Sucks, huh? I remember that one time when I was kidnapped...”

“Fuck, Paige...what are you trying to do here? My fucking head is killing me...I just want to be left alone.”

“Fine. Go in your room, shower or not, and close the door. I’ll clean up out here while you pout and feel sorry for yourself in there.”

“Pout and feel sorry for myself? Are you fucking kidding me? You have no idea what’s going on, so who the fuck are you to come in here and sling insults at me?”

“You’re right. I don’t know what’s going on because instead of talking about it to someone that thought she was your friend, you shut yourself in your cave and got drunk and high.” She bent down and picked up a DVD off the coffee table and rolled her eyes when she looked at the title. “And apparently watch girl-on-girl porn.” Garrett smiled.

“Haven’t watched it yet, care to join me?”

She rolled her eyes again, but she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Not even a little bit do I want to watch women having sex while I’m with a guy who stinks.”

He laughed again. “Damn, you’re mean.”

“I prefer blunt. Now. I’m going to clean up in here. Would you like to take your dirty movie in the bedroom with you?”

Chuckling he said, “I don’t have a TV in the bedroom, but I’ve seen that one before anyways.”

“I’m happy for you.” Paige reached over and switched on the lamp next to the couch. Garrett put his hand up like he was blocking out the sun. “Oh, I’m sorry, too bright?”

“Yes.”

“Then go in your room.”

“You think you’re my mother?”

“Oh God no, what a terrible job that must have...” She saw the wounded look on his face just as she remembered he’d told her that his mother died when he was a kid. “I’m sorry...” He turned away from her and headed down the hall. “Garrett, I’m sorry.” His answer was to go into his room and slam the door behind him. She felt bad, but he was acting like a teenager. With a sigh, she decided to clean up the stinky mess in his living room and let him sleep it off...or at least hope that he did.

* * *

Garrett pulled the comforter around him...and then he realized that it wasn’t a comforter. It was the throw rug, on the bathroom floor. What the fuck am I doing on the bathroom floor, and what the hell smells so bad? He went to sit up and waves of nausea attacked him. Groaning loudly, he pressed both of his hands to his head; it throbbed almost in time with the waves. His stomach was gurgling and he felt like he needed to throw up. He lay back down and rolled toward the toilet, and as he pulled himself up he thought, What a glamorous fucking life. He sat on his knees, hunched over the toilet, and began to dry heave. His mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like sandpaper. He almost wished that he could vomit—at least it would be moisture.

When there was a break in the nausea he turned and put both of his hands on the sink and pulled himself up. He needed water. His arms shook as he used them to hoist his bulk up off the floor, and on shaky legs he stood looking at the large stranger in the mirror. His eyes were completely shot through with blood and his face was covered with thick, dark stubble. His skin was pale and his forehead sweaty. He looked like shit. He moved slightly to turn on the water and the room swirled. For a second he thought he was going down, but suddenly it was stationary again and he was able to turn on the faucet and bend forward slightly to cup his hands. When they were full of water, he brought them up to his mouth and drank...gulped, really. He realized almost instantly that was a mistake. As quickly as he drank the water, that and a lot of bile and leftover whiskey came back up.

He dropped to his knees, hard, and felt the floor shake underneath him before emptying his stomach into the toilet. It took some time, and then even more time before he was strong enough to pull himself back up to his feet. The whole while his head pounded out a rhythm like someone was striking it with a hammer.

He turned on the water again, this time using the cup he’d collected to splash across his face. He did it again this time pushing his wet hands through his hair. None of it was helping. He felt like shit. He finally gave up, turned off the sink, and turned on the shower. Throughout the course of worshiping the porcelain god, he realized that stench he’d been smelling all along was himself. Maybe smelling better would lessen his nausea. God, his head fucking hurt.

While the shower was heating up he took the bottle of aspirin out of the medicine cabinet and shook four of them out into his hand. He popped them into his mouth and stripped off his shorts. Once he was in the shower, under the water, he opened his mouth and caught some and washed them down. His stomach gurgled again in protest but this time he was able to fight through the nausea. He stood there with one hand pressed into the wall and his head bent so that the water cascaded through his hair and over his aching back. How fucking long was I on that cold floor...and how much did I have to drink last night? It must have been a hell of a...fuck! Suddenly he remembered. There was no party, it was more like a wake...his own. Saint was in prison. He was being charged with Garrett’s crimes. For some reason, he’d read the letter Garrett wrote when he planned on killing himself and decided that taking the rap for something he didn’t do was a good idea. Jesus Christ, what a mess.

The shower didn’t help the nausea, or the throbbing in his head. It didn’t help the ache in his chest either, the guilt he felt for screwing up his brother’s life too. Fuck it all, he didn’t want to think about it. He had three more days before they were going to let him see Saint, so today, he was going to feed this fucking hangover with whatever whiskey he could find left in the kitchen. He grabbed the towel and patted his body down before wrapping it around his waist and opening the door to his bedroom. The smell of bleach and some other kind of cleaner...pine?...assaulted his nostrils and brought back the huge, crashing waves of nausea. Who the fuck is cleaning?

He stepped out into the hallway when a vague memory tugged at the recesses of his pounding head. Paige was here last night...or was that a dream? No, he remembered going into his room to get away from her. If it was a dream, he would have been all over her. Hell, why wasn’t he all over her last night? He couldn’t remember, but one thing was clear, she’d cleaned the place up while she was there. He followed the clean smell to the living room and saw that the top of his coffee table was empty and the wood shone like it had just been polished. The afghan that hung over the back of his couch had been neatly folded and the pillows looked like they’d been fluffed. Everything was as neat as a pin, —too neat, it made him a little bit nervous.

He left the living room and pushed open the kitchen door. It smelled a hell of a lot better in there. There was a plate on the stove filled with bacon and a bowl that looked like scrambled eggs. Surprisingly, his stomach growled instead of protesting. Maybe eating would help the nausea. He went over to the cabinet to get a plate and realized there was a fresh pot of coffee on too. Paige must have just left. He would have to send her a text to thank her. He ached to see her, but he didn’t want her to see him like this. He hoped that he hadn’t made too much of a fool of his drunken self the night before. Garrett was so big that it took a copious amount of alcohol to get him drunk...so it didn’t happen often. Today he swore to his aching head that it would never happen again.

He reached up to the top shelf to grab a plate and felt the towel slip off his hips and fall to the floor. Fuck it, he’d get dressed after he ate. He turned back toward the stove with his plate in his hand and found Paige. She was standing in the doorway that led out back where the stairs would take you down to the alleyway where the trash dumpsters were kept. She had the trash can in her hand, and even with that unlikely accessory, she looked hot.

Her eyes flitted from his face to below his waist and she smiled slightly. “Good to know you’re at least happy to see me this morning.”