“Do I have a plan? Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m the eldest child of an historically undiagnosed bipolar mother. I’m a scenthound for finding people in crisis who don’t wanna be found. You can just relax and eat some popcorn over there, I’ve got this taken care of.”
It’s so nonchalant, I almost smile. If I weren’t still so scared about the Cade-dead-in-a-ditch scenario, I probably would have laughed.
“Okay, I’m sorry.” I raise my hands in surrender. “Where are we going?”
“Honestly, it’s a small town. There’s only so many places he can be. We’ll swing by that shithole dive bar out near the fucking mafia farm and see if the lights are on there, and if that’s a bust, we’ll try The Last Glass. Worst case scenario, we’ll start checking all the parking lots that the high school kids go to do whippets, in case he’s trying to relive his glory days.”
I don’t say anything, because my brain is telling me we should be checking all the backroads for his body, but I’m aware that logic isn’t my strong suit when I feel like this.
Tristan stays silent for a minute, before softening his entire self and turning toward me.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find him, and whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. I promise.”
It’s meaningless, because Tristan doesn’t control the universe, but it makes me feel better anyway. I never would have guessed how much of a difference it makes to not feel alone. I let out a shaky exhale, meet his eyes for a second, and then force myself to relax.
Thankfully, Tristan was right. I try not to inflate his ego more than necessary, but we only had to check two places before we found him.
The Last Glass had too much light and too many cars in the lot to truly be closed for the night, despite what the sign on the door says. Tristan pounds on it for a few minutes, yelling loud enough that they need to let us in or he’ll call the cops, and it doesn’t take long for the door to open a crack.
Of course, it’s a shotgun muzzle, not a person, that sticks through.
“Stop that, Rolla,” Tristan snarks, seeming totally unperturbed. “Haven’t I done enough for you? Aren’t we buddies? You know I’m not really gonna narc, but I need you to let me in. I think you have something of mine in there, and I’m here to retrieve him.”
I raise an eyebrow at Tristan, because that’s a weird way to phrase it, but he just shrugs.
There’s rustling for a minute, like something was blocking the door, and then it finally opens. The woman standing behind it looks pissed, but she still gestures for us to go inside.
“He’s in the back. If you’re kicking him out, you might as well get his friends while you’re at it, I’m about ready to go to bed and they’re not spending enough money to keep me awake.”
She yawns for effect and Tristan only nods.
I feel so young and so out of place as I trail behind him, being led through the dingy, underlit bar. There are a couple of older guys still sitting on stools, but the only real noise is coming from a booth at the back. It has ripped seats, a scarred-up table covered in mostly empty glasses, and is surrounded by people I actually recognize.
And Cade. The love of my life, shit-faced and laughing with a fucking cigarette in his hands, no less.
All the fear I’ve been holding onto drains almost immediately, and the only feeling that replaces it is the feeling of being fuckingpissed.
Again, thank fuck for Tristan, because I have no idea what I would say if I tried to talk right now.
“Alright, party’s over, boys. Time to go home.”
They all stop talking, finally noticing us as they all look up at once. A couple of them look surprised, but generally speaking, they don’t seem that worried.
I went to high school with all of these motherfuckers. Of course, Cade was actually friends with them, while I only knew them vaguely because we all trained at the same track. And now they’re all staring at me, and I’d probably feel crippling embarrassment if I weren’t so goddamn angry.
“Silas!” Cade shouts, stubbing out the cigarette and throwing his hands up in the air with a smile in a way that makes him sway to the side. “You remember the guys, right? Bennie and Junior and Chris. Guys, you remember Silas? Didn’t he grow up fucking hot?”
He keeps grinning at me, his expression goofy in a way that I usually enjoy, while I tense up. The guys all laugh at the words spilling out of him, but it doesn’t seem like it’s in a mean way.
I think.
“Yes, bro. Congratulations. Your boy is very hot,” Junior says, which makes Bennie laugh even harder and elbow him in the stomach.
“Well, now that this Algonquin Round Table is coming to an end…” Tristan arches an eyebrow at them with an air of authority that instantly seems to sober everybody up. “Come on, guys. Up! Up! Up!” He gestures at them to stand the fuck up. “Time to go home. Please tell me you fuckwads have a ride.”
They all grumble unintelligibly as they start the slow, painful process of crawling out of the booth. Some of them have the sense to throw cash down on the table, but I couldn’t care less if this place gets paid, to be honest.
When the surge of sweaty bodies finally spits Cade out, he immediately stumbles, crashing into me and throwing his arms around my neck. I grab him to steady him, but lean back at the same time. He smells like whisky, and I’m so far past angry at this point, I don’t know how to describe how I feel.
