Page 94 of Disarm
“You need me to tuck you in too?” He teases as I fumble in my pocket for my keycard and finally get the green light. Then I flip him off.
“I hate you,” I say fondly. “But thanks.”
He sobers for a second, hand on the doorframe. “You did good tonight, Burton,” he says. “We like… need you. Just so you know.”
I look at him, the words taking a second to land.Need you.
“Thanks,” I say, earnest and soft.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Text if you puke and die so we know to send a janitor or something,” he adds, then heads down the hall.
I snort, shaking my head, and step into my room.
Lights on. Curtains closed. Two queen beds—one empty, one mine. My weighted blanket is already spread across my bed. Myduffel’s at the foot, half-unzipped. The air smells like a standard-issue hotel, with stale AC and generic cleaning products.
I sit on the edge of the bed and the room sways a little. My head feels detached from my body by about three inches.
I fish my phone out of my pocket.
Miguel
You alive or did the streets of Reno eat you?
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt.
Caleb
I’m in my room.
Martin walked me back. Bc he’s rude and thinks I can’t walk on my own.
Miguel
Can you?
Caleb
Debatable. Can I call?
Miguel
FaceTime me.
I wanna see your cute drunk face.
My heart does a stupid flutter-kick and I hit the FaceTime before I can overthink it. It rings twice, then his face appears, and my grip on the phone loosens. He’s in bed, hair loose around his face, a gray tank clinging to his shoulders. The room behind him is dim, with just the lamp on. His tattoos are shadows on his arms and chest. He looks unfairly good on a tiny screen a couple hundred miles away.
“Hey there, pretty boy,” he drawls, voice low and warm. “Look at you.”
I flop backward onto the bed so I’m staring at the ceiling, holding the phone above my face. “Look at you,” I giggle—actually fucking giggle. “You’re so hot.”
Miguel laughs, that deep rumble that I feel in my chest even through the phone. “You’re cute when you’re drunk,” he says. “Your little California boy accent comes out more.”
“I do not have an accent,” I protest, the words slurring at the edges. “Californians don’t have accents.”
“Okay, keep telling yourself that,” he teases. “How many drinks did you have?”
“Like three,” I say, squinting. “Maybe four. I stopped counting. But no tequila. I listened.”
