Good Guy

Part Seventeen

Hangovers weren't new to Scotch. He'd had his fair share throughout the summer before entering college, as well as in his first year. His experience with drinking out had made him familiar with his limits when it came to alcohol. Unfortunately, there were times when the world pissed him off so much that he ignored that safe familiarity. As a consequence, mornings after weren't the most pleasant times to wake up to.

They usually started with a weird pressure in his head, as if somebody had stuffed a second and third brain into his skull, accompanied by the feeling of having just gotten off a tilt-a-whirl. It was often followed by an urge to puke his stomach out through his esophagus. Last was the awful experience of sunlight burning into his eyes.

Thankfully, nobody else was in his apartment to pry his blinds open—or so Scotch thought.

"Rise and shine, Princess!" his best friend's voice ordered cheerily.

"Argh!" Scotch cursed as the sound of his window blinds being pulled up grated at his eardrums. Bright light hit the back of his lids and made him squint even before he could open his eyes to the world. He groaned and rolled over on his bed, ultimately finding the strength to peek at Art's smug face. "Wad are you doing here? Wow did you even get in?"

He winced when he heard his own slurry, raspy voice. He sounded like somebody had injected enough Novocaine in his jaw to paralyze it. Art noticed this too and snorted in laughter.

Scotch wanted to roll his eyes in displeasure, but he knew any eye-rolling would result in a second simulation of post-tilt-a-whirl vertigo. Instead, he struggled to sit himself upright and reached for the water bottle that Art helpfully held out for him. He hummed in relief after the cold liquid slid down his parched throat, then peered at a set of keys Art dangled in his other hand.

"Your kind neighbor, saint that she is, called me this morning instead of kicking you to the curb like any other sane person would," his friend explained, jiggling his own keys in front of him. "Cleo was worried about you. She wanted me to tell you that she took these with her just in case something happened and she couldn't get back into your room."

"Oh no." Scotch hunched over and slapped both palms over his face, rubbing his eyelids with the pads of his fingers in disbelief. The events of last night, though slightly fuzzy, came back to him in succession. Cleo had knocked on his door and he'd answered it drunk. She'd tucked him in bed while he made a fool of himself by blabbing whatever nonsense came to his mind. She'd done everything she could to secure his safety and even called Art first thing in the morning to let the guy know about his situation. "I've gotta apologize."

"But you can't do that right now," Art announced, fishing a cut blister of ibuprofen from his jeans pocket. "Classes started three hours ago, and it won't be another four until they're over. 'Til then, you're stuck with me."

Scotch accepted the medication, but set it aside for the moment because his stomach was still doing flips inside his body. It would be a waste if he just puked the tablet out after swallowing it. The blister was placed on top of the bedside drawers—close to where his black button-down was neatly folded and laid. Memories of slim, soft hands undoing the buttons down his front came over Scotch, and he realized that an apology wouldn't be enough to repay the shit he'd put Cleo through. A sacrificial offering would be more apt at this point. "Please kill me now."

"Ouch. Way to bring down my ego and friendship," Art joked, mistaking his reply for a comment on the present company.

Scotch shook his head, careful not to move quicker than necessary. He recalled all the things he'd blathered on about last night, particularly the part about telling her of his connection to Hernan. He was also sure he'd mentioned something about drug-running, the fact he'd most wanted Cleo to avoid knowing about. "I messed up. I said something about Hernan last night, and now Cleo knows a lot more than she should."