Page 5 of Catfish

The room is a beachy theme of seashell decor and old fishermen’s nets on the walls to make some cool-looking pieces. White silk sheets dawn his bed with contrasted red pillows. Freshly cleaned mahogany hardwood floor with Chase’s suitcase still zipped up off to the side and nothing else has been touched.

“Why is it so bright in here?” Chase whines, covering his eyes with his forearm. “Which room is mine?”

I give him a soft shove towards his bed. “The one with all your shit in it.”

“I have a green suitcase?”

Oh my fucking God.

“Apparently,” I convey. “Let’s get your shoes off.”

Chase sits on the edge of the California King bed, attempting to kick his Nikes off while I dodge getting bludgeon in the head from his uncalculated and spasy kicks. Then he’s abruptly in my face.

“I don’t think you drank enough,” he accuses with furrowed brows.

“We’ve been drinking since we arrived here.”

“Yeah, but you’re as sober as a stone.”

“Someone had to find the room.” My palm rests against his forehead, and I shove his drunk ass away from me. “And I’m buzzed.”

For his being drunk, he sure can anchor his ass to the bed because he holds up three fingers in front of my face as I pull off one of his shoes. “How many?”

“Three.”

“You’re not buzzed.”

I tug on his other shoe. “And you’re not fucking helping.”

After two minutes, more of my bitching, and Chase practically having a mini panic attack of him thinking he’s forever going to be stuck with one shoe on his damn foot, we get it off.

Then he wastes no time crawling into the middle of the bed backwards and curling up into an adult-sized ball.

Thank fuck.

I’m going to give him tonight. To be stupid drunk and passing out at a time when bars don’t even get crowded yet.

Chase just got out of a two-month embezzlement case that soaked up a lot of his personal time. We’ve had this vacation planned for over a year, I needed to get out of the public eye, and Chase needed a recess from the courtroom—literally. Vegas was out of the question because the media would follow me, and I didn’t want myself on CNN or a local blog as an irresponsible political figure who wants to run for president and didn’t take shit seriously.

Thing is, I take it too fucking seriously.

Pulling Chase’s suitcase away from his bed, so he doesn’t trip on it if he has to go to the bathroom, I begin to make my way out of the room when he wails for me like a damn beached whale.

“Wait!” Exhaling a heavy breath, I pivot on my heel to find Chase fumbling with his jeans.

“I’m not helping you get undressed, bro,” I convey.

His wallet appears first in the air, followed by a curse, some more whining, and his cell phone. “Keep them safe for me, buddy.”

Instead of arguing that I’m not his babysitter, I take them and watch him curl back up on the mattress.

About to leave again, he asks, “Can I have a glass of water?”

Mother. Of. God.

Quickly making my way to the mini-fridge, I grab a bottle, tucking all his shit in my jeans. “Sit up, so you don’t choke on this.”

Turning on my heels to give him his requested beverage, his eyes are closed, mouth open, and passed the fuck out.

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