Page 46 of The Casualty of Us
“I didn’t fuck her!” he finally shouts, tossing a hand out before reaching up to pull at his hair. Bringing my attention to it and the general state of him for the first time. “I didn’t do anything, I just—she just—I didn’t fuck her.”
“Right, because that’s so much fucking better,” I snap, not letting the fact he looks like he’s been on a month-long bender deter me from dismantling the little shit. “It’s really going to make O feel so much better that you didn’t stick your dick in another girl.” Because he’s the one who fucked up here. “Something happened, though, didn’t it?”
And his cringe is all the confirmation I need.
“Oh, that’s great! Real fucking great, Flynn. Bang-up job there, man.” I chuckle nastily before pointing a finger at him. “I fucking told you to stay away from her. I told you she was off-limits. I told you not to fuck around with—”
“I know!” He stands suddenly. “I fucking know, Ollie!” Both of his hands go to his hair, eyes turning a little wild as he takes a step. “I fucked up! I was stupid and alone and I shouldn’t have even gone in there. I fucked—” He stops suddenly with a gasp, face tensing before his eyes finally still on mine. “I fucked up.” He swallows around the choked-out words. “I did what I alwaysdo, and I fucked everything up. Fucked it all—I can’t—I can’t—” His chest collapses, hands pulling at his hair. “I haven’t been able to fucking breathe since I woke—woke—”
Another gasp comes, breaking up his words, and his eyes slam shut with it. Something that looks a hell of a lot like agony fills his face, and it has my gut churning with sympathy that I immediately try to stifle. It still has me looking away though, running my eyes over his room and seeing that it reflects the state of its occupant. From the dirty clothes scattered everywhere to the piles of old dishes on the desk and the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. It fucking reeks in here too. Reeks like—
“Dude,” I sniff the air. “Have you been fucking smoking in here?”
“What?” I look back to see Hayes open his eyes, staring at me with some kind of desolate confusion that has me waving a hand around.
“Your room smells and looks like what I imagine a month-long bender to be.”
“Oh, uh.” He looks around a little dazedly. “Yeah, I haven’t gotten out much since…”
“Since you screwed my sister over?”
“Yeah.” He flinches, falling back to sit on the bed and burying his head in his hands again. “Yeah, since that.”
Another few seconds pass with nothing but his audible breaths, and the desperation I can feel all over the place in here eases some of the rage I’ve been nursing, whether I want it to or not.
“Ollie.” He finally looks up again, meeting my gaze with a low. “Please.”
I know immediately what he wants. What he’s begging for from me.
It’s the same thing that’s been filling every glance he thinks I don’t catch him sending her way since the day we all met.
But he can fuck right off if he thinks I’m going to let him off that easy.
“Nah,” I scoff. “You can talk to her if you want to know—actually,”
“Ollie, please—”
“New rule.” I narrow my eyes at him and hold up a finger. “You can’t talk to her unless she speaks to you first.”
“She won’t talk to me!” His hands drop from his hair, and he’s suddenly standing again. “Please, Ollie, just tell me she’s okay—”
“She’s not fucking okay, dumbass!” I push at his shoulders, rage sparking at the memory of holding her Christmas morning, but he stands solid against it this time. “She’s not okay. Not that you deserve to—”
“Please, Ollie.” He reaches out, snagging the front of my shirt with that desperation all over his face now. “I just need to fix this. I just need her to talk to me. I need—”
“No, dude.” I smack his hand away. “You fucked it up, so it’s about nothing but what she wants now. You got me?”
He stares at me for a beat, eyes deadening with that lost thing again before he swallows. “And what does she want?”
“Apparently.” I grimace at the disaster in the making but pass it on dutifully. “For everything to go back to the way it was, which is partly why I’m keeping you alive.”
“What?” His face falls. “What do you mean she—”
“Did you know I broke her Barbie Dreamhouse when we were little?”
“What?” He shakes his head in confusion. “What are you—”
“Just shut the fuck up and listen.” I reach out, giving his shoulder a push until he falls to the bed again. “I’m trying to help you, you fucking dumbass—not that you deserve it.”
