I sigh, tipping my head back. “How much did you take?”
“Allof it,” Miles moans, sagging further against me. “Like. All the edibles. And some mixed powder. And maybe three different pills?”
Matt’s looking between us like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke. It’s probably not.
But.
There’s a bigbuthere.
I’ve seen Milesreallycooked before—we all have. The guy has the tolerance of a whole fucking crack house, but even he has limits. And when he’s truly cooked, he’s usually on the floor questioning the nature of reality or confessing his childhood traumas to the nearest potted plant. And sometimes it also gets really ugly.
This isn’t that.
I’ve also seen Miles fake his way out of things he doesn’t want to do. Seen him play sick to skip a party, play tired to not do the dishes. The guy’s a trash actor, honestly, but we always indulge him anyway.
Right now, he’s overdoing it. The glassy eyes are real, but the swaying? The hand on the chest? Total theater.
I don’t know why he’s doing this. I don’t know why he’s here, why he’s cockblocking me. But I also don’t know if I’mwrong. And the thought of being wrong—of leaving him here, of walking out with Matt while something’s actually wrong—makes my stomach clench.
I look at Matt, and by his expression he already knows he won’t be getting it in tonight.
“I should—” he starts, stepping back.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, man. Duty calls.”
Matt hesitates, like he’s considering offering to help, but Miles makes this wet, gagging noise, and Matt’s face does thisoh fuck notwitch
“I think I’m gonna puke,” Miles mumbles into my skin.
That’s Matt’s cue to nope the fuck out. “Maybe another time,” he says, glancing toward the crowd like he’s looking for someone less vomit-adjacent to pull.
“Sure,” I lie, because let’s be real, there’s not gonna be another time.
Miles makes another noise, this time more dramatic, clutching his stomach, and Matt fuckingbolts, disappearing into the sea of bodies before I can even fake a goodbye.
15 Loads
“You’re such a fucking liar,” I mutter, dragging Miles up the porch steps. His arm’s slung over my shoulder, his breath reeking of tequila and skunk against my neck. “Pulling that wasted act so I wouldn’t get laid. Real mature, dude.”
He stumbles, but it’s all performance.
I creak the door open, and Miles lets out this exaggerated groan, sagging against me like a total deadweight. I roll my eyes.
“Quit the act,” I hiss, grabbing his waistband and yanking him toward the stairs. His laughter’s muffled against my shoulder, but I still feel it.
His room smells like weed and old laundry, his bed a mess of sheets and discarded hoodies. I dump him onto the mattress harder than necessary, just to hear him grunt, and he sprawls out with this lazy, shit-eating grin.
“You’re such a prick,” I tell him, climbing over him, knees bracketing his hips. His glasses are crooked, the lenses catching the dim light.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says.
“For what? Straight-up sabotage?”
“For saving you from mediocre dick.”
I snort. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Not yet,” he says, grinding up against me. “But give me another hour.”
