Bad Son (Wild Men 3.50)

Where do I belong? Everything’s fuzzy. My knees buckle.

“Whoa.” He grabs my elbow with his other hand. “Easy there.”

“Can’t breathe,” I mumble.

Memories crowd the back of my mind, trying to break free, memories I keep under lock and key. Hands shoving me into a corner, pawing at me, tearing at my clothes.

Nothing happened, I remind myself. Nothing that matters happened. I got away.

But here’s the catch: in my mind, in my dreams, I didn’t.

“You had a shock,” the guy, Fen, says. “Let’s get you some fresh air. You didn’t take anything, right?” He pulls me away from the wall, in an indeterminate direction. “E? Any other drug? Didn’t let anyone spike your drink?”

I shake my head, then stop when the nausea worsens.

“Good,” he grinds out, and hauls me along faster. “Come on.”

I should stop him. Yank my hand away. This is going exactly the same way as before, when he rescued me. He’s going to take me out—where, into an alley?

God.

“Stop, just... stop.” I manage to slow him down and pull my hand back. “Ow. Let go.” I’ll have such bruises there come tomorrow. Don’t boys really know their strength, or are they doing it on purpose? “I’m not looking for a hook-up, okay?”

And I mean it. My heart is hammering behind my ribs, and darkness is seeping into the edges of my vision. The sounds of ragged breathing fill my ears, the stench of old, sour sweat and the sweetness of weed...

“Wait a minute.” To my surprise, he lets go, turning to face me, lifting a brow. “You think I want you?”

“I...” I stammer, fear an icy current running through my veins.

He laughs, shakes his head. “You look like you’re gonna puke. I was helping you to the door, that’s all.”

Now why do I want to punch him in his handsome face? All of a sudden, I feel embarrassed and offended. Why is he so amused that I might think he wants me? Plenty of boys want me, thank you very much. What’s so frigging special about him?

Taking a better look at him, I’m struck with another case of déjà vu. What’s up with that tonight, huh? I mean, it’s hard to really make out his face in the flashing lights and half-darkness. Am I seeing things?

“There’s the door.” He gestures. “Feel free to go and puke on your own.”

What a douche. Lifting my chin, I start toward the outline of the door, the Exit sign on it glowing faintly. But my legs feel strangely heavy, and the pounding in my head is growing louder. The world tilts sharply, and I’m falling.

“Fuck.” His hand comes under my elbow, stea

dying me, pulling me up. “Sure you didn’t take anything? No shame in confessing, you know.”

“To you?” I snap, angry at having to accept his help after all, and at how good he smells, pressed so close to me—unlike the other douchebag from before.

“Well, sure, if you like,” he replies easily, “you can confess to me.”

“Shut up. Just... shut up.” All I want is to shove his arrogant ass away—only he’s already opening the door with his free hand, and we’re stepping out into the muggy air of the back alley.

The beat of the music falls away as the door swings closed behind us. His hand is still clamped on my elbow, and I’m grateful for that as we go down two steps I hadn’t noticed.

Finally on level ground, I take a deep breath stinking of trash and urine and probably vomit, when I notice two figures a few feet away.

I don’t know the girl she’s talking to, but I’d know the one with her back to me in a dark room full of people.

Sydney, her red curls cascading on her shoulders, her skirt barely covering her ass. I helped her into that skirt earlier tonight.

My head is spinning despite the fresh air and the quiet.