“Sir—”
“You’re dismissed, Grigoreth.”
CHAPTER 5
The motel room was too quiet.
That was always the problem with coming down from a jump. The high lasted maybe an hour, just long enough to get through the interview, dodge the medics, and escape back to wherever he was staying.
And then silence.
Dustin tossed his keycard on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was generic. Beige walls, beige carpet, a painting of a field of yellow flowers. He'd stayed in a hundred rooms just like it.
He pulled out his phone to play some music. Something loud.
He spotted three texts from his manager about tomorrow's schedule and one from the Apex PR team with “talking points” for the duck incident, which they were apparently spinning as a “hilarious behind-the-scenes moment.”
Fucking hell.
There was also an email from someone wanting him to promote protein powder.
And one missed call from Mom.
She hadn’t left a voicemail. She never did. Her MO was to call, let it ring once or twice and hang up. Like she was checking to make sure the line still worked. Making surehestill worked.
He should call her back.
He looked at her name on the screen for a long moment. Cathy. He'd changed it from “Mom” a few years ago, for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. It felt less heavy that way. Less like an obligation he was failing.
She'd probably just ask how the jump went. He'd say fine. She'd say that's good. There'd be a long pause where neither of them mentioned Tyler, and then she'd say she should let him go, and he'd say yeah, and that would be it.
Tomorrow. He'd call her tomorrow.
Tonight was for not thinking.
Dustin dropped the phone on the bed and headed for the shower.
An hour later, he was ready to go out.
He wore clean jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather jacket Tyler had savagely mocked him for buying four years ago. He’d said it made Dustin look like he was trying too hard.
That wasn’t true anymore. Dustin never looked like he was trying. He made shit look effortless.
His brother would be proud if he could see him now. Wouldn’t he?
He checked himself in the mirror. Ran a hand through his hair.
The city had to have a decent bar somewhere.Somewhere loud, with bad decisions on tap and people who would ask him about his tattoos and nothing else.
He grabbed his keycard and walked out the door.
The bar was called something like Venom or Viper or Voltage—one of those aggressive single-word names that promised bad music and worse decisions. In short, it was perfect.
Dustin pushed through the door and let the noise wash over him. Bass thumping through the floor. Bodies packed tight. The smell of sweat and alcohol and cologne signaled that this was a place where thinking was optional.
Which was exactly what Dustin had been looking for.
He made his way to the bar, ordered a glass of whiskey with a single ice cube, and leaned back to survey the room.
