Page 88 of Fly Boy
“Just dandy,” Bowie croons. He holds up his thumb before sliding out of sight, muttering, “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say, hating that this means our night’s been cut short. I wince as I try to find the words that don’t make me sound like an asshole. “Listen, I think it’s best if…”
She smiles, lifting onto her tiptoes and pressing her lips to mine. “It’s okay. Call me if you need anything?”
“I will,” I mutter before kissing her fully. She presses into me, unwilling to end this as much as I am. As soon as we pull away, I miss the contact, so I lean my forehead to hers. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t be,” she whispers. “Go take care of your brother.”
She shrugs on her jacket, lifting her bag she must have brought down with her from the foot of the stairs, pausing to look at me before closing the front door behind her. I stare at it, sucking in the strength to deal with my drunken brother.
“Right, speak,” I demand, slapping his feet to get his attention. “What the hell has you appearing at my door at nine at night?”
His eyes snap open, trying to focus on me, his brown eyes hazy but assessing as he tilts his head.
“Y’know, if you weren’t my brother, I think I’d be into all that ink.”
Rubbing my temples, I inhale deeply, squeezing my eyes shut.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I mumble, scowling when I hear him laugh. “What happened, Bowie?”
“I need more vodka,” he says, instead of answering my question, pointedly itching his nose before massaging his cheeks. “My face is getting its feeling back.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble. Leaving him alone, I disappear into my kitchen. Opening a cabinet, I take out a glass and fill it with water, grabbing painkillers before returning to the side of the couch. I nudge him with my knee, and he eyes my hand suspiciously. “It’s water, just drink it.”
“I didn’t know you took drugs,” he teases, but grabs the two white pills and tosses them into his mouth. He gulps down theentire glass of water, panting when he says, “Naughty, naughty, you could lose your flying license.”
“Pilot license, and they’re Advil,” I say, irritation coating my words. Glancing down the length of his body, noticing his dirty boots slung over the arm of the couch. I grit my teeth, unlacing them before pulling them off his feet. His socks are soaked, and my hand recoils in disgust. “What the fuck, Bowie.”
“It’s vodka. Not piss,” he slurs. “I dropped my last bottle before I came here. Splashed around in it. Soaked it all up.” He yawns, his eyes closing languidly.
“Jesus, Bowie, you’re in a state,” I mutter, not expecting him to hear, but he holds up his middle finger.
“And you are…” he trails off, his breaths turning slow and rhythmic.
Leaning down, I manage to maneuver him onto my shoulder. My couch is comfy, but the men in my family are tall. As well as an awful hangover if I let him sleep it off here, it won’t just be his head that’s sore.
“I don’t want to sleep in your bed after you’ve been fucking that chick,” Bowie grumbles, getting a second wind as I carry him up the stairs. I shift him farther up my shoulder, my bone digging into his stomach.
Pippa isnotsome chick I’m fucking. Pippa is so much more than that.
“Ow, you dick,” he groans, prodding me in the kidneys.
I squirm, unable to stop my laugh, and I slap the back of his thighs. “I’m putting you in the guest room, dumbass.”
“Oh.” He’s quiet, almost like he’s thinking about that. “You were having sex with her, though?”
“Not anymore,” I say, unfairly annoyed that Iwouldbe if it weren’t for him. But whatever has Bowie in this state, it can’t be great if he’s this drunk.
“Me neither,” he tells me sadly.
“I’d be surprised if you were, Bowie. She doesn’t really seem your type.” I bend down and gently roll him onto the queen-size bed. “Do you want to take your jeans off, and I’ll throw them in the wash?”
“Just my socks. They got all wet,” he moans, then tries to kick them off using his toes, missing each time.
“Lord, give me strength,” I sigh, undressing my little brother the way I used to help Sadie when he was a baby and tucking him under the comforter.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says through a yawn, turning onto his side, his eyes closed, “I’m not fucking Mason anymore, either.”
