Just a Bit Wrecked (Straight Guys 11)

There was a bottle of vodka among the things Logan had salvaged from the plane. Andrew grabbed it when the other man wasn’t looking, went to his wife’s grave, and got smashingly drunk. It was a good feeling.

Logan found him a few hours later and was, quite predictably, furious. But then again, he seemed to have only two moods, as far as Andrew was concerned: disgusted and furious.

“Go away,” Andrew slurred, looking up at him from the ground. “You’re killing the mood here.”

His voice sounded strange even to his own ears. Hoarse and croaky. How long had he not used it? Since…

Andrew took another swig from the bottle, relishing the burn.

He was pretty sure Logan’s face would have turned red with rage had it not been already so sun-bronzed.

“I told you: you aren’t allowed to take anything without my approval first,” Logan gritted out, a muscle ticking at his temple.

Andrew snorted, kicking Logan’s shin. It was a pity he was barefoot. It probably didn’t even hurt that asshole. “You’re the biggest control freak I’ve ever met.” His lips twisted into a smile. “And I’ve known quite a few control freaks, so that actually says a lot. Are you sure you didn’t attend Joseph Rutledge’s school for the most controlling dicks on the planet?”

Logan shot him a disgusted look. “Get up. Drink some water and go sleep it off.”

Andrew kicked him on the shin again. The asshole didn’t even budge. “You aren’t the boss of me.”

“No,” Logan said. “But I’m the guy in charge of the stash, not you. You don’t get to take anything you like. Our supplies are limited—”

“It’s just vodka. What use—”

“It was the only thing here that could be used as an antiseptic,” Logan ground out. “And now we have nothing, thanks to you.”

Oh.

Andrew looked back at the bottle.

There was a long, tense silence.

Andrew stared at the bottle’s label. “It’s her birthday today,” he whispered, and then he laughed, the sound harsh and jarring even to his own ears. “I think. How fucked up is it that I don’t even know for sure what day it is?”

A sigh. “That’s hardly a good reason to get wasted—”

“She thought she might be pregnant.”

Silence.

Logan didn’t say anything.

Andrew gulped down what was left in the bottle and looked at the sky as he fought the tightness in his throat. Fuck, he didn’t know why he felt like this. It wasn’t like he had wanted kids all that much: Vivian had been the one who wanted them so badly. Andrew could still remember her wide smile and the tears in her eyes when she had realized that her period was late. She had decided to do a pregnancy test when they got back to the US, afraid of yet another disappointment. They had been trying for over six years, with Vivian getting more and more desperate as she approached forty. Was it ironic that she had died just as her dream was possibly about to come true? Ironic was the wrong word. Fucked up. Cruel. Fucking unfair and stupid.

And now he’d never even know if she really had been pregnant. He would always wonder.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Logan said, his voice gruff.

Andrew snorted. “Right. It’s not like people like you would ever understand what it’s like to lose a wife.”

“People like me,” Logan said flatly.

Andrew kicked the bottle toward the ocean. “Homos.”

“Do you actually want to get the shit kicked out of you?”

Lifting his eyes, Andrew focused his gaze on Logan’s pissed-off face and smiled. Maybe I do, he thought. Physical hurt to distract him from the pain in his chest sounded almost welcome. “Did I offend you? Aren’t you a homo? A cocksucker? A faggot?”

Logan’s lips pressed together, his brown eyes darkening. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but you won’t get a rise out of me with a few juvenile insults.”

Andrew stretched his mouth into a sneer. “I just can’t help but notice that you didn’t even shed a tear for your boyfriend—or whatever that guy who was all over you was. But then again, I’ve always known homos didn’t give a shit about anything but sticking their dicks into other homos. You wouldn’t understand things like love and grief—” He yelped as Logan hauled him to his feet roughly.

“One more word, and I’ll fucking punch you,” Logan said, his fingers digging painfully into Andrew’s shoulders. “I gave you a lot of slack, because you’re grieving and all, but I’m really getting fed up with your bigoted bullshit.” He shook him like a ragdoll. “This is your last warning.”

Andrew swallowed, his heart beating so fast it felt like it was trying to escape his chest.

Logan was big. It was a stupid thing to notice, but he’d never been this close to him before. Logan was big. The weird thing was, he didn’t look all that big from afar—maybe because he was tall and muscular without much fat—but this close, it was obvious that the guy was built like a tank. He towered over Andrew by more than half a head, and Andrew wasn’t exactly short, either—five foot eleven. It wasn’t just the height or the muscular build. The guy’s presence was oppressively strong, his dark gaze heavy and hostile. Coupled with his dark scruff and grumpy disposition, he looked uncannily like Wolverine, which was amusing, considering his name. Or would have been amusing if Andrew were capable of feeling amusement anymore.