Page 3 of Never Say Die
But Shay’s expression carved itself into his eyelids. On every blink, Aiden saw him.
Aiden wrenched open the freezer and grabbed a mostly full bottle. He tipped the frozen lip against his mouth and swallowed. Tequila, the shitty kind from the bottom shelf, scorched his throat. He coughed. Put his back to the fridge and let his knees buckle. Seated on the kitchen floor with his legs spread, he drank desperately. A final notice from the power company lay discarded on the rug and his muddy boots left brown marks on the tile. Across the room, his backpack slouched against the wall, concealing the messy knife, torn cellophane, and leftover feathers.
So, this was regret, huh? He took another swig. Clamped his lips and focused on not puking. Sickness ballooned in his gut. He chased it with more tequila, staring at the popcorn ceiling, replaying Shay’s teeth on his bottom lip.
I knew you’d be easy for me.
Car horns blared and laughter echoed from the sidewalk. Damp mid-summer heat snuck through the window, but Aidendidn’t take off his jacket. He drank until his skin went hot, and his bladder hurt, and his stomach finally said,bitch, enough.He crawled to the bathroom, heaved tequila and blood and ashes into the toilet, and thought,I bet Lucifer’s having a good fucking laugh. His temple smacked the bathtub on a violent sob. Then he thought,Shay, and everything went dark.
CHAPTER TWO
Sunlight crisscrossed the floor outside the bathroom, yellow light on disgusting beige carpet. Aiden tried to swallow, but his body wouldn’t allow it. Consciousness strobed inside him, first in his skull, throbbing, then in his stomach, clenching and leaping, and finally in his throat, urging him to lift his head. He pushed to his palms and heaved into the toilet. His body purged until there was nothing left. He rested his cheek on the cold toilet seat, panting and sniffling.
Tequila be damned, he remembered everything.
A studded belt buckle dug into his belly. Sick soured his gums. He peeled his jacket off, tossed it, shrugged his shirt off, tossed it, set his cheek on the toilet again, hiccupped, winced, kicked off his boots, then his pants, and slithered into the tub. The water ran cold, forcing his senses to sharpen. He certainly wasn’t awake, but he wassomewhatalert, at least. He rinsed his mouth, tested a stint of hot water, dry-heaved, twisted the knob to cold, brushed his teeth, tried not to think of Shay, thought of him anyway, lathered his skin with cheap Old Spice knockoff shower gel, and sat there. Dazed. Steeped in a ruthless hangover.
His palm remembered the weight of the knife. His mouthremembered Shay. His hands remembered bloody dirt. His body remembered the stillness, otherworldly and watched, as he swallowed blackened paper.
Live with it.The words came once, again, a third time.I’ll live with it. I have to live with it. I can live with it.
And he would. For a while, at least.
In the living room, his phone buzzed. By the sound of traffic outside, it had to be mid-day. The phone quieted, then rang again. His mind jumped to Shay’s bloated body pushed onto shore. Some college-drop-out dog-walker screaming at the top of their lungs. Police and forensic teams swarming the beach. Climactic arrest scenes from all the bullshit True Crime he’d binged on Netflix flashed behind his eyes. He stepped out of the shower and walked into the studio, snatching his phone off the counter. Eight Missed Calls. Six from Thomas. Two from Georgia. He checked his texts.
Thomas Manko: our set got moved to 8. last opener. sound check changed from 3 to 4.
Thomas Manko: hello?
Georgia Williams: where the fuck are you
Georgia Williams: AIDEN
Aiden glanced at the backpack against the wall.
Thomas Manko: we’re coming to get you
Aiden Moore: i’m up. text when you’re here
The time read 3:11 p.m. He searched through his laundry for a towel and dried off. If he ate something, he’d probably get sick, but if he didn’t eat something, he’d probably pass out during sound check. Puking he could live with; bouncing his face off the stage would be far more embarrassing. He dressed simply, dark jeans, black shirt, and combed wax through his hair, smoothing black strands away from his face. The only edible product in his pantry was stale Fruit Loops. He ate straight from the box, pacing in front of his backpack as he crunched cardboard circles under his teeth.
It was arguably just a backpack, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He shoved cereal into his mouth and toed at one of the straps, nudging the muddy bag toward his dresser. A few drawers were open, clothes dangling over wooden edges. A mattress piled with sheets and blankets filled the center of the room. He wanted to hide the backpack for a while. Take a break from his responsibilities: wash the knife, tuck it away, keep it close. He’d do it after the show.Yeah, after. Post-performance adrenaline would make him brave. He kicked the backpack into the corner between the dresser and the wall, and grabbed his studded pleather bomber jacket off the floor. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He startled and dropped the Fruit Loops. Cereal littered the tile.
“Motherfucker,” he seethed, and brought the phone to his ear. “What?”
“Get your ass out here,” Georgia snapped.
Aiden tongued at his cheek, eyes pinned to the sad, dusty backpack, and ended the call.Get in the car. Go to rehearsal. Play the gig. Come home. Take care of the rest. Yeah, okay, good. Yes.That was the plan—a good, solid plan. Shay’s voice speared him.I always knew.He inhaled a shaky breath, exhaled hard, and blinked through the sting building in his nose. A car honked. Heshoved his knuckles against his eyes.Easy for me.Shouldered through the front door and bounced down the cement stairs.
Thomas opened the door on a gray van. A cigarette dangled from between his lips, smile coy and crooked. “You look like shit.”
“I always look like shit,” Aiden said. He fell into the seat, propping his boot on the center console.
Georgia met his eyes in the rearview mirror. Her nut-brown skull was freshly shaved, skin accented with shimmery lotion. Out of their four-piece band, she was the draw. Strong, enviably beautiful, and alwaysonenough to make it through an interview. “You smell like a bar,” she said, and snorted. “Like, awholebar.”
“I put on deodorant,” he said, matter-of-factly. His head thumped the seat, and he shielded his face with his forearm, curling against the window.
Dylan, their bassist, craned his neck. His long, wheat-colored hair was tied into a loose bun. He was fair, like Thomas, freckled, hawk-nosed and handsome. “Where’d you run off to last night?”
