Page 9 of Proof Of Life

Are we back in Cancun? I fucking hope so.

It sure beats dying alone in the desert.

Goddamn, can’t he snag us an umbrella before I fucking waste away?

Brandt!

I know that motherfucker can hear me because I can hear him.

He’s talking to someone while I lay here dying.

Completely fucking inconsiderate!

Bra–

My tongue isn’t cooperating, probably because my mouth is so dry, it feels glued shut.

If he would just stop flirting with the ladies long enough to grab us a couple of drinks, maybe I could speak clearly.

Tequila Sunrise, Brandt.

I reach for him, but I’m not even sure if my hand is actually moving. It feels like dead weight.

I’m dead weight.

Brandt, get us–

I’m—thirsty. So fucking thirsty.

My saliva has become a thick paste, being churned by my tongue into a sticky froth that coats the inside of my mouth.

I need Bran—no, he’s here with me. Touching me. I think he’s holding my hand, if I could just see his face.

“–bringing him out of it today. His head looks good.”

Good? My head looks fan-fucking-tastic. Cut, smooth, and fat.

Why is Brandt’s girl talking about my cock? Why is Brandt?

“He’ll be waking up soon,” she says.

Can’t open my eyes. They’re so heavy.

Did she fucking roofie me?

I’d have shown her my cock without putting up a fuss if she would have just asked.

I squeeze his hand, so he’ll help me open my damn eyes.

“He’s squeezing me! West…it’s me, Brandt. Wake up.”

Of course it’s fucking you. Who else would be holding my hand and shouting at me?

“Help…Me…” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds raspy and faint, barely recognizable.

“I’m here, West. Talk to me, Goose.”

If he’s going to start with the Top Gun shit, I’ll punch him if I ever get my eyes open.

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