Micah
“Micah? Micah, are you awake up there? What happened down here?”
Oh, fuck.I release an exaggerated groan. That’s Melody, the woman who comes in twice a week to pick up after me and drop off meals. I totally forgot she’d be here this morning.
My own parents are always too busy with traveling for work, play, or whatever else takes them away to bother keeping up with the house or anything to do with me. Half the time I’d bet they stay away to avoid each other.
There’s some shuffling downstairs, and judging from the direction the noise is coming from, I’d say it’s probably Melody cleaning up down in the kitchen. But I can’t be sure because my head is pounding an incessant rhythm. My brain is thumping against the inside of my fucking skull, trying to escape. I wince as I try to remember what the hell I’d done after I’d gotten home from the dance last night.
I remember breaking into Dad’s cabinet full of booze. Again. I’d downed a bunch of expensive whiskey on top of the vodka I’d already had. My mood hadn’t been pretty. I cringe, recalling I’d thrown some shit around, kicked a chair over …
My memories travel further back. The dance. Daphne in her gorgeous green dress. Griffin’s hands and mouth all over my girl. Alora and her damn crown and her need to look like the perfect couple. Fuuuck. Everything is so messed up. Frustration had built up inside of me until I couldn’t handle it anymore. I close my eyes and drag in a breath. I practically choke on it, thinking about what an asshole I’d been.
I shouldn’t have kissed Daphne. It’d taken her slapping me to knock some sense into my drunk brain last night. What the fuck am I doing?
“Micah?” Melody’s voice infiltrates the incessant hammering of my brain as she taps lightly on my door. “Micah, I need to know you’re okay. Can I come in?”
I squint, looking down at myself sprawled buck naked on top of my unmade bed. I don’t even remember taking off my clothes last night. “Just a sec,” I groan. Grasping the sheet, I yank, pulling it over my lower half. “Okay. You can come in.” I close my eyes again.
“I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that there’s glass everywhere in the foyer and there was some blood—” She stops mid-sentence as I lift my arm to rub my eyes. “Oh, wow. Okay.” She pads quietly across the plush carpeting to the side of my bed. “Honey, did you know you’ve cut your arm?”
Gingerly, I inspect the dried blood on the back of my forearm. “Well, shit. That kinda hurts,” I mumble.
“Should I call your—?”
I jerk my head in the negative, putting a stop to her suggestion. “No. I’m fine. I don’t need them.”
Melody exhales heavily. “You’re sure?” She doesn’t sound convinced at all.
I sit up, assessing the damage. It doesn’t look awful. Not terribly deep. My mind scrambles, trying to figure out what happened. I rub the middle of my forehead with a few fingers and try to recall the events of the previous night.
“There’s glass all over the place. It looks like you broke a bottle.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. It slipped. I’m sorry about that. I’ll clean it up if you don’t have time to deal with it.”
“It’s okay, I’m on it. I just”—her eyes roam over my face, studying me—“needed to make sure you were okay.” She gives a nod. “I’ll leave you be.”
That’s what I like best about Melody. As long as I’m still alive when she visits, she calls it good. She’s an angel for doing everything without actually interfering in my life. I don’t have a fucking clue if she ever even mentions the wild parties or other stuff she cleans up after to my parents. She’s not paid to be my babysitter or my keeper.
Fuck, maybe if she told them, they’d stay home more often. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Still, she’s a good one to have on my side, but she doesn’t take the place of a parent, that’s for damn sure. Nor should she have to. She’s literally contracted to make sure the house is clean and I’m fed. That’s it.
Once she’s gone back downstairs, I ease myself out of the bed and into the bathroom. I look at my arm again and shake my head. It must have been some night. Quickly turning on the shower, I don’t bother waiting for it to heat up before stepping in.
The blast of cold water against my chest wakes me right the fuck up. I duck my head under the spray, rubbing my hands over the top of my head and then my face. I brace myself against the tiled wall and let flashes of drunken memories from last night hit me. Everything from being pissed at the sheer quantity of photos Alora had wanted to take before we left her place to walking in and spotting Daphne in that hot-as-fuck green dress to dying inside as she kissed Griffin.
I lather up a washcloth, and run it over my body, wincing when I forget about the cut on my arm. “Ow. Fuck,” I grunt.
And then like an asshole, my drunk ass couldn’t stop from kissing her in the parking lot.
She’d looked so sad and alone when I’d first approached her, and all I wanted to do was make sure she was okay. Surprisingly, though, she’d made sure I understood she was pissed. I lift one hand to my cheek, remembering the sting of the slap.
After I stumbled home on foot, I’d chugged a bunch of whiskey. Out of my mind with bitterness, I’d slung the half-full bottle against the wall.
It’s probably a fucking miracle I hadn’t cut myself worse than I had. Once I’ve shampooed my hair and rinsed myself off from head to toe, I step out of the shower and onto the mat.
With a towel tucked around my waist, I lean on the counter, staring into the mirror, taking in my pale face and shadowed eyes. I despise the guy reflected back at me. He was cold and callous last night. I’m sure telling Daphne that she was lying to herself went over really well.
I shake my head, reminding myself that I’d done what I had to. Rock, meet hard place.
What I wouldn’t have given to have walked into that dance with Daphne on my arm. I would have loved picking her up at home and doing the whole parental photo-op thing. To have gotten her a corsage. To have told her how beautiful she was. To have held her close while we danced.
My expression grim, I walk into my bedroom and pull boxers, a T-shirt, and a pair of joggers from my dresser and throw them on. I have no real plans for the day except to lay low in recovery mode and try to figure out my next steps. I have no fucking clue how to go on like this, but I don’t know what else to do.
If I don’t go along with what Alora wants, things will get pretty awful. She holds all the cards right now. If she were to show anyone what she has—what she’s holding over my head … well, I don’t want to think about it.
In an effort to forget, I go down to our home gym and punch a bag until my knuckles split and blood drips onto the mat below.