Page 35 of Reckless

I wished I was at home, but a part of me swelled with mutiny against the thought, as though I had something to prove. And didn’t I always, in this place? I didn’t know anymore, but I liked the rush of bravado that my stubbornness gave me, even if it was only the bravado to keep drinking. So that I wouldn’t have to admit to myself that I let thoughts of Alastair chase me out of the club. If he didn’t want me, that was fucking fine, but he didn’t get to stop me from enjoying myself. That was what I was doing here, right? Enjoying myself.

I hadn’t been this drunk in a while. Longer than I could remember, though I couldn’t remember much at this point. Maybe not even my own name if anyone had asked it. Nobody did though. It wasn’t that kind of a place.

The music was so loud I could feel it vibrating in my bones and through my guts. It felt more a part of me than my own limbs. That hand that was wrapped around a glass was mine, because I lifted it to get a drink, but I couldn’t feel how it was connected. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, just that I was still drinking.

A guy sat down next to me and ordered a beer. Even through my fog I caught the way his gaze slid to me before it fixed on the bartender again. I studied him openly, my head too fuzzy to try to pretend I wasn’t sizing him up. He was stringy, long limbs without much muscle. That wouldn’t do. I slid off the stool, staggering a bit. “Watch it!” I thought I heard someone say, and maybe it was directed at me, maybe I’d bumped someone—my awareness of my own body in space seemed to jostle and tilt with each movement I made.

I felt strange. Not easy, relaxed, having a good time, but like I’d entered some parallel universe. Like this place wasn’t real, and I’d never be able to find my way back to what was. I shook my head suddenly, violently. I’d imagined I’d felt a weight on it. Alastair’s hand, gentle. I pushed him away. Physically lashed out with one arm, like I could send the memory of him reeling.

That was a mistake. I fell into something—a person, a piece of furniture, I wasn’t sure, and things went black.

Then, like magic, I was on a couch. Faux leather, cracks in it with dirty stuffing poking out. I didn’t know where I was, but the important thing was that I wasn’t in the club anymore. My head still pounded with the phantom bass, and it seemed like strobes were flashing in front of my eyes as I blinked rapidly.

I was in someone’s cramped, messy flat. Possibly that someone was the naked guy standing several feet away, squeezing lube onto his dick like he was putting tomato sauce on a snag at a sausage sizzle. He was big, at least, in every sense. Looked like he could do some damage.

I laughed. It came out hoarse and croaking. The guy looked over at me. A glob of lube fell off his dick and onto the floor. He stepped over to me, and I spread my legs automatically, realising only then that I wasn’t wearing anything below the waist. The room spun as he lowered himself onto the squeaky faux leather. “What’s so funny?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry, or threatening, or amused, or…anything, really. His voice sounded like dozens of others. His flat smelled like weed and unwashed dishes. His face looked like one I wouldn’t remember.

I closed my eyes, trying to get the spinning to stop. I groaned, feeling oddly floaty. Not like I did with Alastair. But like I wasn’t all here. I hoped my new friend was about to bring me back to earth. I felt the guy’s weight on top of me, smelled the stale alcohol on his breath. My stomach lurched as his dick trailed lube against my thigh.

“Said you want someone to wreck you?” he asked. He wagged his hips back and forth so his dick slapped against me.

I snickered again, thinking about condoms. Alastair would want me to use a condom. I pictured the stash hidden in my bedroom. Thought of the farm, the sunrise I’d miss tomorrow. The cool, professional way Alastair had said, “I do hope that you’ll be careful.” How it didn’t match the heat of his hand cracking across my arse. Suddenly, it was like my stomach and the room were spinning in different directions at the same time. The guy’s knee pressed hard between my legs.

“The fuck are you laughing at?” he asked.

I opened my mouth and vomited all over him.

“What the hell happened to you?” Elias Dinsmore asked when by some miracle I made it to the ferry terminal by the morning. He’d been stretched out on a row of plastic seats when I turned up, the dog’s leash looped around his wrist, but he sat up when he saw me. The dog shifted, its cone of shame scraping against the concrete floor.

The barge wasn’t due for another few hours, but it was an open air sort of structure. The ticket kiosk and the little snack shop were closed, shutters pulled down on the windows, and there was nobody else around yet except a cleaner who was emptying the bins.

“Nothing,” I said, and slumped down in one of the seats he’d just vacated.

He loomed up beside me, looking as glaring and menacing as he usually did. His dark hair and beard were even messier than usual, which was saying something since he usually looked feral. I was intimidated by his size and his demeanour, like everyone who met him was, but I couldn’t give a fuck this morning. I was tired, either still drunk or at the start of a killer hangover, and I’d already had the shit kicked out of me.

And not because I’d asked for it for once.

“Doesn’t look like nothing. You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah,” I said. I was wearing my jacket zipped up, and I held my balled-up T-shirt against the gash behind my ear. My hand was sticky with blood.

“You need the hospital?” he asked.

“Nah.”

Elias nodded. Hospitals were more trouble than they were worth for us Islanders. Too many questions and too much government paperwork.

“You can see the new doctor when we get back,” Elias said.

I didn’t answer that. I’d seen the new doctor more than was good for me, actually, and I felt queasy thinking about turning up on his doorstep like this. Because he’d ask what happened, and if he was just my doctor maybe I would have told him. But he was also the guy who’d fucked me, and I didn’t want to have to try to explain to him that I hadn’t asked to get hurt this time. Because then I’d have to admit that I’d been so drunk I didn’t even know how I got to the guy’s flat, that I’d been stupid and reckless, that I’d just blinked my way back into consciousness at some point to find myself half naked on a couch. And that seemed like something Alastair would have more of a problem with than if I had asked to get roughed up on purpose.

I wasn’t fucking proud of it myself. Shame was a customary enough feeling that I could handle it on my own, but I didn’t need anyone else poking at it.

Elias didn’t push. He just sat there, a solid wall of silence, his shadow pooling across the concrete floor. The dog settled back down at his feet with a huff, its cone scraping a half-circle against the plastic seat leg. The cleaner had moved on to the next bin, the rattle of plastic bags fading.

I pressed the balled-up T-shirt harder against the gash behind my ear. The fabric was getting soggy. I should probably ask if Elias had anything cleaner, but I didn't want to talk. Didn’t want to explain, because I couldn’t. Didn’t want to see the look on his face shift from that flat, unreadable glare into something uglier—pity, or judgement, or that particular Islander satisfaction of watching someone confirm what you already thought of them.

So I said nothing.