Page 68 of Promises in the Dark

I groaned, pissed at myself for blowing my load like some desperate teenager. My cock was still half-hard, and the sheets felt disgustingly warm and wet against my skin. I couldn’t believe I had just wanked off in my sleep.

Thirty-fucking-one years old, and here I was, acting like I was sixteen again.

As I sit up, the pounding in my head only got worse. It felt like a fucking elephant was dancing on it. I sighed, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples, trying to steady myself. I couldn’t even remember jerking off before bed, but there it was—evidence all over me.

Un-fucking-believable.

I was a virgin all over again.

Disgusted, I sat up and started cleaning up the mess. I grabbed a towel, wiping the cum off my cock, trying to soak up the worst of it. The sheets? Yeah, they were screwed, soaked all the way through. I tossed the towel into the laundry pile, hoping it would deal with the worst of it for now.

The first thing that came to my mind was last night. Red. Our fight.

Man, I was pissed. What the fuck was the point of getting blackout drunk if I still had to deal with her in my dreams? Fucking hell.

Nope, not doing that.

Ok, I knew I shouldn’t have, but last night I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of whiskey, taking swigs like it was my job. The only thing that made that shitty night slightly bearable was the fact that I could drink my ass off nearly to the point of coma and still be fresh as a daisy in the morning.

I got my alcohol tolerance from that piece of shit father of mine, may he rot in hell. He used to get so hammered, and yet he’d be up before dawn, ready to start another day of abuse. It was one of the few things he gave me that wasn’t a curse.

Thanks, old man, for passing on your fucked-up gene.

I stumbled back to the bathroom, trying not to vomit at the sight of my own reflection.

Christ, I looked like shit. My hair was a mess, my eyes were bloodshot, and my face felt like it was punched a thousand times. Basically, I looked like I’d just fought ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

Red would probably take one look at me and laugh her ass off. Like last night.

Fucking fantastic.

I splashed some cold water on my face, hoping it would sober me up. It didn’t, but at least it woke me the hell up.

Drinking myself into oblivion just to forget about some chick? Fucking pathetic.

I looked again in the mirror, and for a moment, I saw my father’s eyes staring back at me.

Hell, no.

Fuck Red. Fuck my life. And fuck this hangover.

I shivered and turned away, thinking that today was not the day I was going to break the cycle. I just needed to survive without throwing up or passing out.

Ah, and writing that useless report.

I headed for the shower, turning it on ice cold. As the freezing water hit my skin, it felt like a punch to the balls, but it worked. I started to sober up enough to face the shitty day ahead.

I closed my eyes, letting the water pound down on me, hoping it’d wash away all the shit I was drowning in. For a second, I pretended like none of it happened. But I knew it wastemporary. The hangover, the memories, the guilt—they were all just waiting to sucker punch me the second I opened my eyes.

Fuck it.

Dragging my sorry ass back to the living room, feeling like the world’s biggest cliché, I knew today was gonna be another round of bullshit. I just hoped I wouldn’t be the one hitting the floor this time. Despite drinking enough to put a horse under, I was still functional. It was a skill, right?

Right?

And that was when I heard it—the sound of an explosion, deep and resonant, shaking the very foundations of the base and rattling my shit.

My heart jumped into my throat, and I was on my feet in an instant, every instinct I had screaming at me to get the fuck out of here.

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