“Forget it,” I mutter, yanking my hand back and crossing my arms.
I sink into the seat, glaring at the window to avoid Ace’s amused expression.
Sylus, you little fucker.
THIRTY
My knuckles throb, swollen from last night’s fight.
I keep flexing them out of habit, but every time I see them red and scabbed, it drags me back to his hands.
The shiner under my left eye aches, too, pulsing with every thud of my headache. I’m chugging my second energy drink, the sickly sweet liquid doing nothing to chase off the gnawing hangover or the worse-than-usual pit in my chest. It’s not just the hangover, though. It’s the memory of fists connecting, my pulse pounding in my ears, that dark rush of anger that felt like freedom and poison all at once.
I punch the buttons on my controller harder than I need to, guiding my character through another round of the shooter game. I tell myself it helps, that the violence on the screen will siphon off the lingering aggression and the numbness that’s weighing me down. But it’s not working. The game doesn’t scratch the itch or drown out the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
My door opens, followed by footsteps behind me, and I know who it is without looking. My shoulders tense. It’s as if he’s been watching me since I stumbled in last night, drunk, bloody, and looking like a loser.
“You going to tell me what happened?”
“No.” My answer is clipped, muttered around the can pressed to my lips.
Oscar doesn’t press, but he doesn’t leave, either. Instead, I hear the sound of something being set down, the rustle of fabric. “Got a minute?”
“Not really,” I shoot back, still focused on the screen.
“I wasn’t asking, kid.”
Finally, I glance over to see what he’s holding. Wooden hoops. I blink, confused. “What the hell is that?”
“Embroidery,” he casually says as if it’s obvious. “Come here.” He sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him.
I laugh, but it’s bitter. “Yeah, I’m not a grandma, Oscar.”
“Who said anything about being a grandma? Sit down.”
“I’m busy,” I snap, gesturing to the screen.
“No, you’re avoiding,” he counters. “Now, get over here.”
I sigh, throwing the controller down harder than I need to. “Fine.”
Dragging myself off the desk chair, I drop onto the bed beside him, arms crossed, while he explains how to thread the needle like I’d care.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, staring at the needle like it’s a foreign object.
“Yeah?” He grins, reaching for something on the bed. “What about this?” He holds up a half-finished piece with bold, flowery stitching that reads DON’T BE A DICK.
I snort. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Figured you’d appreciate the sentiment.”
I shake my head, the corners of my mouth twitching. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he admits, leaning back. “But this? This helps. Keeps your hands busy. Keeps your head straight.” He threads a needle for me, then holds it out. “Here, try it.”
I take it reluctantly, clumsily stabbing the needle through the fabric. It’s harder than it looks, but Oscar doesn’t make fun of me. He simply watches, occasionally offering pointers.
“So,” he starts after a while. “You want to tell me why your knuckles look like that?”
