“You’re Mark,” he says, without hesitation.
My pulse jumps. So he does know it’s me.
Then his face shifts—serious, almost confused. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Moon,” I say.
“No.”
“Sawyer?” I offer, wondering if he’s slipping into full delirium.
“Yes,” he says, then grins—lazy, a little crooked. “But you can call me baby.”
Nick, shamelessly listening in from the other side, bursts out laughing. Eric, who missed the whole thing under the hum of the car, turns to ask what’s going on. While Nick fills him in, Moon leans into me, his head dropping onto my shoulder, his nose brushing my cheek as he murmurs, “You smell nice.”
“Thanks?” I say, my heart in my throat now, blood rushing in my ears. Jesus—he must be seriously out of it, because the real Sawyer would probably drink poison before admitting he likes how I smell.
“Do you live with someone?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “I can call them to come get you.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says—and after a pause, lets out a sigh. “I miss my mom. She’s in Chicago.”
I snort, glancing at him—completely thrown by how different he is without that usual mask of superiority. Nick must be thinking the same thing, because he’s watching us again, both hands over his mouth, trying not to laugh.
“Why are you smiling?” Moon asks, catching my gaze.
“No reason,” I say, trying to ignore my brother, who’s clearly having the time of his life. I pick up the bottle from Moon’s lap, unscrew the cap, and hand it to him. “Drink some water. It'll help.”
“You sure it’s not drugged?” he asks, eyeing the bottle. He’s starting to sound more lucid now. Whatever was in his drink, his body’s taken the hit and is already starting to bounce back.
“It’s not, I promise,” I tell him.
He nods, then grabs it and downs the whole thing in one go. Once he’s finished, I take the empty bottle from him.
“Do you remember your home address?” I try again. His eyes are clearer—maybe there’s a chance.
“Downtown,” he says. “By the blue house.”
He’s still on about that damn blue house. I give up. It’s not like we’re going to cruise around the city hoping to spot a building that rings a bell—or worse, try his key in random locks.
“Do you know that guy from the club?” I ask instead.
“Who?” he frowns.
“The Joker guy.”
Moon blinks, as if trying to figure out what I’m asking. Then blinks again—like it clicks—and shakes his head.
“We met at the club,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “He wanted me to blow him in the bathroom. I said no, so he spiked my drink.”
My stomach turns. Jesus. He says it so flatly, like it’s just a fact—and all I feel is the urge to go back to that club and cave that guy’s face in.
“You shouldn’t drink with strangers,” I mutter. He doesn’t answer.
I glance over—his eyes are shut, his body slumped against mine. I reach out to check if he’s still breathing. There’s warmth on my hand from his breath, but I still watch his chest to make sure it’s rising, then find his pulse. It’s strong enough. He’s okay—for now.
I don’t know what that asshole put in his drink, but at least Moon’s warm, breathing steady. His skin’s not clammy, lips not blue—stuff I know to look for in situations like this.
I let him rest against me, though I’m already thinking maybe we should call an ambulance when we get to Nick’s. Just in case.
