“I’ll get the first round,” Fly said, needing a breather.
“You shouldn’t have to pay, master surfer. Let me?—”
“No!” Fly shouted, realizing he yelled above the music. His three friends looked at him like he’d just pulled out a loaded gun. “I’ve got it,” he said, modulating his voice, sweating, and feeling sick. He ordered a pitcher and picked it up along with the four mugs.
When he got back to the table, Shamrock was talking again about the monster wave. “Just texted Surf.” His voice was loud, proud, animated, riding the buzz of adrenaline like it was still daylight on the beach.
“I’m telling you, man, I’ve never seen anything like it,” Shamrock said, slapping Fly on the shoulder for emphasis. “That barrel just kept opening. I swear to God, it was like the wave wanted you there?—”
“Drop it,” Fly said.
He meant it lightly. He thought he did.
Shamrock laughed, undeterred. “I’m serious. You could’ve sold tickets. Bolt, back me up.”
Bolt grinned. “Best ride I’ve seen you take. And that’s saying something.”
Fly set down the pitcher and glasses, jaw tight, the praise scraping instead of landing. His stomach churned again, sharp and hot. He waved a hand. “Wasn’t that great,” he said. “You guys are over-hyping it.”
Shamrock scoffed. “Bullshit. You’re being modest now? Since when?”
That did it.
Fly grabbed a fistful of Shamrock’s shirt, dragged him off the stool, and slammed him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Shut the fuck up,” Fly snapped.
The words came out sharp and ugly, nothing like the measured tone he used when he was in control. The bar noise dipped around them. Someone swore under their breath. Bolt froze, eyes wide.
Shamrock blinked, shock wiping the grin off his face. “Fly?—”
“Don’t,” Fly said, chest heaving. “Just—don’t.”
He released him like he’d been burned and stepped back, hands shaking. The silence was worse than the noise. He could feel it then—the wrongness—not just in his gut, but in his limbs, his breath, the way his temper had flared without warning.
That wasn’t him.
Fly knew it. The guys knew it. That was the problem.
North’s hand settled on his shoulder, and it should have grounded him, but it felt wrong too. He spun away from him.
“Geezus,” he muttered, trying to handle what the hell was happening to him, backing away. “I need?—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Fly turned and pushed through the bathroom door, dropping to his knees, barely making it to the commode before his stomach revolted. He braced one hand against the porcelain as he threw up hard, body folding around the violence of it. Acid burned his throat. His vision swam.
When it was over, he stayed there, head hanging, breathing through his nose like he was trying to ride out a storm.
Get it together.
Outside the stall, he splashed water on his face and stared at his reflection. Pale. Eyes too bright. Jaw clenched so hard it ached. The man staring back at him looked familiar but wrong, like a photograph taken from a bad angle.
He’d lost his temper.
That never happened. Not like that. Fly absorbed chaos. He didn’t become it.
The nausea lingered, sour and insistent, as if his body hadn’t finished rejecting whatever had gotten into him.
