Page 55 of Hot Doggin'
We check out, McCormick’s treat since he asked me out, and on our way to the truck, the churro guy drives by and pulls up to a stop in front of the store.
“Dessert!” Mac cheers.
I let my fingers brush against his and he curls his pinky around mine. “Best date ever.”
Mac chuckles. “Not yet, but it’s about to be. After the sucking.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
STILES
The heatof the blast singes my eyebrows and eyelashes. It burns the skin from my face in spots and whites out my vision. The force of it knocks me on my ass, and I hit the dirt hard. The sound of the boom renders me temporarily deaf.
It’s lights out.
When I open my eyes again, I expect to see the dusty landscape, the lifeless bodies scattered and obliterated by the land mine. When I touch my face, it’s going to burn in the spots where my skin is raw.
But my eyes open and everything is dark. My skin doesn’t burn, my head doesn’t throb, and there’s no ringing in my ears. I touch my face, but I can still feel my course bushy brows beneath my calloused fingertips.
This isn’t that day. This isn’t the day my ass got blasted into oblivion and I lost my short-term memories along with part of my unit.
It’s just a dream. Another night spent reliving the hell of my past. The only memory I can’t forget, but I would give anything not to remember.
It takes a moment for me to reorient myself. I’m in McCormick’s bed. No,ourbed. I reach out for him, but all I feel are cold, empty sheets in the space where his body should be.
A loud clash in the kitchen makes me jump, and I cover my head. My mind is still in fight or flight mode from the dream. But I shake it off because it’s just me and Mac here, and if he’s not beside me, it’s him in the kitchen making all that noise.
Something’s not right. Now that my head is clear, I can feel it in my gut.
Another loud clash, followed by the bang of what I assume are cabinet doors. Fuck. Mac’s in trouble. It seems I’m not the only one stuck in the past tonight.
Throwing on a pair of sweats, I rush out to the kitchen but stop short when I see him. The place is fucking wrecked. Pots and pans litter the floor. Forks and knives are scattered like land mines, waiting to be stepped on. Dozens of brightly colored sticky notes that were stuck to the fridge to remind me of my life are now sprinkled like confetti over the scuffed linoleum floor.
Mac is on a bender, rooting through cabinets and slamming doors, tearing open drawers and making the biggest mess. He’s dressed in nothing but his underwear, and his arms are covered in angry red scratches and cuts.
He turns to me, but he doesn’t see me. Mac looks right through me, which feels eerie as fuck. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. His bright blue eyes look wild and unfocused and his breath is ragged, like he was running on the treadmill.
McCormick looks feral.
“Mac, wake up.” I wave my arms in front of his face, approaching slowly, cautiously, but he doesn’t see me. Or he thinks I’m someone else. “Mac, it’s me, Stiles. Wake up.”
We’ve danced to this tune many nights, but usually, I’m not here when he goes full tilt. I’m at home in my own bed, and hedoesn’t call me until afterward when he’s lucid enough to realize he took a trip back to the past and needs help staying grounded in the present.
He looks haunted, and it’s terrifying and heartbreaking to see someone I love so lost, to feel like they’re so far away that I can’t reach them.
“Danny,” he screams, lunging for me. “Don’t do it!” McCormick wraps his thick arms around my neck, like a vice, choking the air from my lungs. Pressure and heat suffuse my face and my head aches as I fight for breath. “Don’t leave me,” Mac wails. “Give me the gun.” He’s scratching at me, trying to frisk me for a weapon I don’t have, but at least he lets up off my neck so I can breathe. “Give me the gun,” he cries brokenly, and the sound breaks my heart.
I can’t reach him, but he knows what’s coming. Any second, he’s going to relive his buddy’s death, and I’m powerless to stop it.
If I say, or do the wrong thing, it could trigger him negatively and make everything worse. I wish I were Brewer. I wish I knew what to do in this scenario to help him.
“No,” he screams and drops my body, crawling across the hazardous floor, blind to the pain of the forks and knives digging into his knee. He tries to fit himself into the cabinet under the sink, but his body is just too big, his shoulders too wide. My ass collapses to the floor, my back against the fridge, and I watch helplessly as he cuts his shoulders to shit trying to wedge himself into the damn cabinet.
My phone! I rush to the bedroom and grab it from my nightstand, pulling up the group thread.
Code Black. 911.
