Page 93 of Disarm
We’re at a bar.
I had…
Like 2 drinks.
Maybe 3.
I’m slightly buzzed.
Don’t be mad.
His reply comes pretty fast.
Miguel
Mad???
Nah, baby. You act like I’m some fucking saint. I’m so high rn, I’m floating on a cloud.
Caleb
Jealous… I wanna be with you.
Miguel
Just don’t let them talk you into tequila. I don’t wanna have to come bail you out of jail for public indecency.
How you feeling? Scale of 1 to calling your dad to tell him he’s a prick.
Caleb
7?
I wanna call you.
Does that count?
Miguel
That’s allowed, actually, it’s encouraged.
Check what time it is. Don’t miss curfew.
I squint at the neon clock above the bar. “Shit,” I mutter when the numbers look blurry. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” one of the guys answers. “We should head back. Coach will have our asses if we’re late.”
By the time we spill out into the cold Nevada air, my head is pleasantly spinning. The walk back to the hotel feels longer than it did coming here. My balance is a little off, so I clutch my phonein one hand and the strap of my bag in the other, like that’s gonna help.
“You good, Burton?” Martin drapes an arm around my shoulders. He’s taller than me and annoyingly steady. “You’re walking like you’re on a boat.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, but I lean into him a little. The sidewalk tilts more than I expected. “Okay, maybe not fine-fine.”
He laughs. “Come on, superstar. I’ll get you to your room so you don’t break your ankle on some random Reno curb and Coach starts crying.”
The hotel lobby is mercifully quiet. Just a bored guy at the front desk and some other employee scrolling on his phone. My brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton. Everything’s a little slow, delayed, like watching life through glass.
We make it up to our floor without incident. Martin walks me straight to my door. Apparently I look like I’m about to “fall down in the hallway.”
