"Yep."
Hope's phone blares from her purse, and her lips pull into a wry smile. "Well, I know whatthatone wants." She digs her phone from her purse, touches the screen, and places it to her ear. "Hey, hot stuff." She pauses for a second, and her smile slowly fades. "Fine. Fine. I'll send her over." She disconnects the call and shoots an annoyed look in my direction.
"Brandon got shitfaced and evidently needs you. Kyan said he's done babysitting him."
The second Iwalk into Brandon's flat, I roll my eyes. Clothes and empty beer cans scatter the living room, and Kyan's sitting at the end of the sofa with a beer in his hand while Brandon hangs halfway off the couch, swatting at a bottle of whiskey on the table.
Kyan’s gaze locks on me when he grabs the liquor and hands it to Brandon. "Well, 'bout time you came back. He's been like this for twenty-four hours. Missed his fight."
Brandon looks over, squinting his bloodshot eyes. "Possum. You're here." He lifts the bottle to me. "Come have a drink."
"Possum?" Kyan says, laughing as he slaps a hand over his forehead. "Fuck me."
I glare at Kyan, and he shrinks back a step. "What the hell are you doing, Brandon?"
Brandon’s eyebrows pull together in a frown. "Drinking.”
"Yes, that I can clearly see. Butwhyhave you been drunk for twenty-four hours."
The frown deepens, and he lifts the bottle to his lips, turning it up, and taking a glug before he drops it to his side.
“For the love of…” Huffing, I cross the room, pointing at Kyan when I reach the couch. "And really? You’ve been sitting here feeding him alcohol?"
Kyan shrugs.
"God, you are an idiot," I mumble. "Just get out of here.”
Holding up his hands, Kyan gets to his feet. "He's got a fight in eight hours, you may want to try to sober him up a bit."
"He's not fighting."
"Oh, like hell he's not. He missed his fight last night. Larry'll have him by the balls if he no shows again."
My face heats, and I push onto the tips of my toes, inching toward Kyan's face. "Tell Larry if he thinks Brandon’s fighting, I'll havehimby the balls."
"You got a bit of feist in you yet, don't you?"
I shove him one good time, and he stumbles toward the door.
"All right then, I'll see you later, Brandon." The door closes behind him, and I turn back to Brandon, who’s attempting to take off his shirt but failing miserably.
"God, you are like a child sometimes," I say as I lean down and tug his shirt over his head.
His chin drops, and I grab it, raising his head back up. "Thanks."
"Why are you drunk—I mean, you're drunk a lot, butthis?" I let go of his chin, and his face falls forward.
"You left, poss," he slurs.
"I went to Hope's. I didn't leave."
Without lifting his head, he mumbles, "Left me."
Sighing, I flop onto the couch next to him and comb my fingers through his hair. When he looks up, I notice his cheekbone is swollen and bruised. "So, if you didn't fight, why is your cheek all banged up?"
He rubs a hand over his cheek. "My cheek?"
I toss my head against the cushion on a hard exhale. "You wear me out."
