Page 192 of Captive Omega

Ding-dong.

I’m up, gun in one hand, straining to listen through two doors and a wall. Suffice to say, I don’t hear shit.

Then my cell phone vibrates.

I consider ignoring it until I read the message that flashes up as a notification.

“Lex…” I grumble.

I take my gun with me, leave a snoring Blaine on the bed, and go answer the door.

A delivery truck is pulling away as I open the front door. Lex must have figured out what state Blaine would be in from the contents of the paper bags outside the door: water, juice, a fruit basket, and crackers. Enough to last a couple of days.

A pained groan rumbles from behind me. Sounds like Blaine is awake. And it only took three hours of waiting.

After making a brief kitchen detour to empty the contents of the bags into the refrigerator, I return to the bedroom to find Blaine hanging over the side of the bed, throwing up in a bucket. His glasses are on the floor.

“Need a hand?” I walk over and pick up the glasses.

“No,” he slurs as he tips out of the bed.

I catch him, re-settle him, and try not to notice how tense he is. As soon as he’s no longer in danger of tipping out again, I hand him his glasses and back up. “I am trying to?—”

“Don’t need help,” he slurs.

I wait for the next bout of vomiting to pass and retreat to the wall beside the door, crossing my arms as I watch him drag a towel over his mouth and roll onto his back.

Neither of us speaks for several seconds.

Then he clears his throat, sounding almost as raspy as he did after the car crash. “Resa. Is she?—”

“Fine.” I hope. “She’s with Garrison at the house.”

Blaine swallows hard. “Did she?—”

“Blame you?” Easy enough to figure out what he would think. “No. She isn’t busy blaming you for something that’s not your fault. Only you’re in the habit of doing that.”

It’s not fair to say this now when I know he’s feeling like shit. But for the first time, he won’t be walking out mid-argument. Not with a bottle of vodka sitting in his belly.

“That’s not altogether true now. Is it?” He hasn’t put his glasses back on. They’re on the bed beside him as he stares up at the ceiling, but I expect there’s an ocean of guilt in his eyes.

Over the years, I’ve fallen into a pattern with Blaine. We talk about the small things or about work, and more recently, about Resa and how we can do the best for her and the baby.

We don’t talk about Violet or the car crash. Yet no matter what we’re talking about, I always get the sense he’s thinking of her as much as I am.

We’re not lovers, Blaine and I, but we’ve always been close. Now there’s an invisible line in the sand neither of us crosses.

He blows out a breath and swallows right after, as if to keep from throwing up. “I don’t mean to be difficult.”

Which is about as close to an apology as I’ve gotten before. Mostly, he changes the subject or walks away. It’s slow progress, but it is progress. “I know.”

He makes a sound of frustration in the back of his throat. “I just?—”

“I know, Blaine,” I interrupt.

He angles his head to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is as pale as that time when we made a mistake eating oysters that didn’t smell great.

“A bottle of vodka… What the fuck was I thinking?” He swallows again.

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