I jolt awake, gasping.
My hands scramble to my stomach. Finally, nothing. No movement, just slick skin with dried sweat and blood. My head is pounding like hell. Skull-splitting. Temple-throbbing. A full-brain punishment. It feels like someone used a sledgehammer on my skull. The room’s spinning again. Somehow, the sheets are all twisted around my waist. Still naked, except for that one sock, making my foot sweat.
My balls are sore, but still there when I check, just to be sure. Caressing them like I usually do when I wake up, but they hurt too much now. I groan, roll to the side, and squint at the clock on the nightstand.
4:13 pm.
No fucking way. I blink at it.
I just laid down.
Just closed my eyes for like five minutes. Tops. What did Mas say? 7 or some shit like that? I’ve been out for nine hours? Nine hours since I stabbed myself in the nut sac. Nine hours since Massimo made burnt eggs and insulted my hygiene.
I slide out of bed. Everything hurts. My dick dangles lifeless. My knees crack. I need aspirin. Or morphine. Or maybe tequila. Tequila kills everything. Even worms. I stumble into the hallway, tripping over my foot, then catch myself on the wall like I meant to do that. The house is dark except for the flickering light from the TV in the living room.
When I reach the end of the hallway, I know why. My brother is asleep on the couch. Several beer bottles are on the coffee table. Next to it are smelly Chinese takeout containers. The Sox are on. Getting their asses handed to them, judging from the score at the bottom of the screen.
I shuffle into the kitchen. The scene of the crime. Blood is smeared on the floor. From me or the worm. Who knows. I hit the cabinet next to the fridge. Searching for aspirin. Shoving the protein powder and supplements aside, I find my brother’s stash of Sour Patch Kids. An unopened bottle of lube. Expired TUMS. I grab four, chew them up, and swallow them down.
No fucking aspirin.
I try under the sink. Nothing but empty liquor bottles and a box labeled “Party Shit” filled with glow sticks, empty shooters, a smashed disco ball, and a half-deflated blow-up doll with duct tape over her nipples.
No meds.
Just degeneracy.
The counter is sticky. The eggs are sitting stale and stinky. Crusted food is all over the stove. I gag. This place stinks. I stink. I need air and drugs. I creep toward the living room. Mas is still passed out on the couch, even with me banging all over the kitchen. One arm over his chest.
He’s in sweats. No shirt. Blanket twisted under one leg. He looks peaceful. I shouldn’t wake him. He took care of my ass, as always. I need drugs and possibly some greasy Chinese food like him.
I’ll ride my bike. It’ll be okay.
Shit, I’ve ridden that thing drunk many times. Hungover is a fucking cake walk. Shuffling down the hall to my room, I dress as quickly as my fucking swelling brain lets me. But every time I move, a bolt of pain from my nut sac shoots into my body.
Each step sends a bolt of pain through my lower half. My balls are throbbing like I shoved a wasp nest in my briefs. My vision blurs. My head pounds, but the worm is gone. Drugs will make it better.
Finally, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, I grab my helmet and keys. The pharmacy is just down the street.
What’s the worst that can happen?
CHAPTER 2
MASSIMO
I was supposed to keep him safe. I always have. Now he’s sedated. The breathing machine they brought him in on has been removed and cleared away. I didn’t see it. The staff wouldn’t let me. They whizzed him by me, straight into surgery.
Dumped my ass in the waiting room with my boys. Then the mess between Dom and Holli. What a fucking shitshow. In a completely fucked up way, the adrenaline from holding Dom back made me want to fight too. Fight him, or Holli. Either one to take away from the reality of my baby brother being in this goddamn fucking place.
The chair beneath me is hard plastic, warped from years of use. My spine is curled at a strange angle, but I haven’t moved. Not in hours. Not since they wheeled him in here and left me alone with the sound of machines surrounding him. With the lights dimmed, he’s pale.
Lifeless but alive.
I’ve never been a spiritual guy. But fuck if I haven’t prayed to everybody I know. I wipe my face again, though the tears stopped a while ago. My cheeks are dry and itchy from the salt. My eyes burn, the lids swollen, and lashes crusted.
Crying was the easy part.
That was earlier. Back when the fear and panic hit. Back when the nurse told me they had to intubate and sedate him. When they said the crash was bad. When I thought he might be . . . I can’t even say it. Won’t even think about it.
