Page 323 of Releasing 10
“You don’t want to know, lad,” I replied, still simmering with tension. “Trust me.”
“Okie-dokie,” Gibs replied, clapping my back. “How about we stop talking and start drinking?”
“I think that’s a very good idea, Gibs.”
“Here,” he said, pushing a shot glass of clear liquid into my hand. “Just knock it back, lad.”
Not bothering to question him, I tossed it back. “Fuck,” I hissed when the burning sensation clawed at my throat. “What the fuck was that?”
“Say hello to my little friend,” Gibs replied in an animated voice, waving a bottle with a sombrero-shaped lid in my face. “Tried and tested by yours truly.” Popping the hat off the top with exaggerated flair, he refilled my glass before pouring one for himself. “Guaranteed to numb all feeling.”
I eyed him warily as he danced on the spot with the bottle cradled protectively to his chest.
“Trust me, lad.” He clinked his glass against mine. “I’m the master concealer.”
“Fuck it.” Blowing out a shaky breath, I tipped my head back and swallowed it down in one gulp. “This was a mistake.”
“On the contrary, my friend, this”—he paused to perch the little hat on his head and down his own shot, before letting out an audible hiss—“is the best decision you’ve made all night.”
“Not the tequila, Gibs, the house party,” I explained, accepting another shot from him. “This was a fucking mistake.”
“Are you mental?” Still bopping and swaying, he gestured to the jam-packed kitchen. “Look around, Hugo. The house is packed. The drink is flying. The craic is ninety.”
He clinked his glass against mine again before tossing it back like a pro.
“Woo!” Hissing out a breath, Gibs continued to dance. “To the first of many parties at your wonderful establishment, Hugo—oh, and don’t worry about Old Murphy down the street. If that nosy bastard calls the Gards, I’ll take the blame.”
And if she shows up?I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. Because I was shit scared of speaking it into reality.
LOSING MY GRIP
Lizzie
NOVEMBER 1, 2003
IHAD NO MEMORY OF GETTING TOHUGH’S HOUSE WHENISTUMBLED THROUGH HISfront door, soaked to the skin, with a half-drank bottle of my father’s whiskey dangling from my fingers.
Confusion gripped me tight, making it difficult to recognize the smiling faces acknowledging me.
I couldn’t make out a word of what they said.
I couldn’t even remember the password to unlock my phone.
All I knew in this moment was my clothes were drenched, my head was clouded, and I wanted my boyfriend.
Hugh.
Shaking my head, I stumbled up the staircase, moving on instinct, desperate to find him.
Because Ineededhim.
Because I felt like I was about toexplode.
Because I couldn’tbreathewithout his touch.
Stumbling into his bedroom, I blinked in surprise when my gaze landed on a shaved-headed boy sprawled out on my boyfriend’s bed.
Tilting my head to one side, I asked, “What are you doing?”
