Awesome.
“Are you—?” Yeah, he doesn’t look okay. Moot question. I huff. “May I come in?”
He says nothing but steps back. I take that as a yes, and walk into his apartment, the door falling shut behind me.
***
It’s dim inside his living room, and the smell of alcohol suffocating. There’s also a smell of wet fur and a whiff of...antiseptic?
“Why is it so dark in here?” The hulking shape of the sofa looms out of the gloom. I barely make out a table with chairs on the other side and two doors, one of them half-open. “Why are you locked in?”
No answer. He’s leaning on the wall by the apartment door, a darker shadow.
“Do you know the agency has been calling you?” Like I have. “They said you missed appointments.” No reaction. “They’re worried about you.”
He snorts.
Okay, I give in. He’s acting too weird. “What’s going on?”
“Nothin’.” But his voice is as rough as his appearance. Dressed in low-slung jogging pants and a stained T-shirt, barefoot, his hair hanging in his face, he looks like he’s sick.
“You were drinking.”
He snorts once more. Yeah I know, I’m stating the obvious. As my eyes get accustomed to the dimness, I make out a row of bottles on the low coffee table.
Oh dear God. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough,” he spits the words and still doesn’t move from his spot against the door. “What do you want, Pax?”
I flinch at his cold tone. Are we back to this?
“Know what? I was worried about you. Believe it or not, although you left without a word and never called, I…” I swallow hard. “I had to make sure you’re all right. But I’ll go.”
With a curse, he pushes off the door and staggers over to me. I stiffen—just how drunk is he? But when he grabs me in his arms and wraps them around me, I want to cry with relief.
“Pax…” He presses his face to my hair. “Missed you.”
God, I missed him, too. How is that possible? I haven’t known him all that long, and yet it feels like a lifetime.
I slide my arms around his back, pressing my body against his, but he jerks and hisses between his teeth, pulling away.
“Riot.” I step back immediately, lift my hands as he wraps an arm around his ribs. “Oh God. You’re hurt?”
“It’s nothing.” He staggers—no, he limps to the sofa, as I stare at him, dumbfounded.
Jesus. I start after him a moment later, and sit down beside him.
“Riot. Let me see.”
It’s too frigging dark. On my right is a standing lamp and I fumble under it until I find the switch and turn it on.
“Ow, fuck.” He throws an arm over his eyes but not before I see that one of them is black and swollen almost shut.
Crap. Looks like someone beat him up.
I tug his arm down to take a better look at his face and he lets me. His jaw is purple and swollen, and his lower lip is split, crusted with blood.
Yikes. I hurt just by looking at his face.