"No," I said. "You can drink."
"Then yes, stay. I need you tonight."
And I had needed him the whole week before.
He was there for me.
I was there for him.
One thing was for sure-when one of us fell, the other followed down, no questions asked.
Five fingers of brandy, and Dean didn't even allow the expensive drink to tickle his taste buds before he tossed his head back and finished the snifter in one gulp. He leaned a hip against the wet bar and tugged at his hair, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Manhattan. This city was powerful. So was he. Problem was, for the first time since we met-since we were teenagers, actually-I didn't see him for the big, successful man that he was. I saw a lost boy, and that boy? I wasn't sure many people could get to him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" My fingers danced on his furniture as I walked toward him, memorizing every curve of dark wood and fabric of the plush seats. This girl, the nagging one who kept on asking what's wrong-she wasn't me. But caring for Dean was me. And I had a feeling his sudden change had something to do with this Nina woman. The mysterious phone calls had purpose, that much I was sure of, but they were an open wound. The last thing I wanted to do was to cut it deeper and watch him bleed.
Truths could be uncomfortable. That was why people often chased them. More often than not, they weren't for all to see. And that was why Dean didn't know why I couldn't become a nurse. Why he had no idea I couldn't have any children.
My boyfriend shook his head. With no trace of emotion in his voice, he ordered, "C'mere."
I ambled the distance to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, staring him dead in the eye. There was disobedience in my pupils. He needed a diversion from whatever bothered him enough to drive him crazy and make him drink and smoke himself to death.
Dean had a problem. He knew it. I knew it.
He had a problem, and this problem pushed him straight into the arms of his vices. He physically needed the alcohol and the weed to forget whatever it was that bothered him. I wanted to ask-was desperate to dig deeper into the dark rooms of his soul and pull out secret after secret, cleaning it from the cluttered mess-but couldn't. It killed me, but I had to be there for him, any way he'd have me.
"You're gorgeous," he gruffed, trailing a finger over my jawline with the hand that wasn't holding his brandy.
"You're drunk," I deadpanned, laughing nervously.
"True." His predatory eyes played with my body in a way no other man could with their hands. "And still, you were gorgeous when I was sober, and you'll still be gorgeous when I nurse a fucking hangover from hell tomorrow morning." His hands slid down to my waist, and he grabbed me with force, spinning and placing me on his bar. My lower back pressed against an endless number of luxurious bottles, and the surface underneath me slipped chill into my bones, even through my long, torn, black skinny jeans.
His hand slid to the buttons on my jeans, and he was quick to pull them down until they hit the floor. My Sex Pistols yellow T-shirt was thrown onto the gray settee in less than a second, my flip-flops nowhere to be found. Dean then flattened me against the bar with his palm on my chest, and when the bottles dug into my back, he wiped them all off of the surface with his arm, a dozen of them falling to the floor in unison of colors, sound, and light.
"Jesus!" I gasped, the noise of shattered glass ringing in the room like an alarm. Dean grabbed the bottle of brandy that sat next to him and took another swig before pouring some into my navel and sucking on it, his warm lips on my skin making my lower stomach explode with nerves and need.
"I'm not a bad person," he slurred, seemingly out of nowhere and to no one in particular. His level of drunkenness had me genuinely worried, but even though Dean was still a riddle, one thing was stark clear.
He didn't want to be nursed or contained. He wanted to go unhinged.
His demons came out to play, and tonight, I was going to be their victim. I lay there at his altar, waiting to be punished for something I hadn't done. His pain was going to be distributed between us.
And I was glad to take some of it away, even if it was just for one night.
"No. You're the best person," I mumbled as he dropped to his knees and tore the underwear from my skin. Red, searing marks brushed my thighs like welts. He flung the balled fabric behind his shoulder and dove down, tasting what was between my legs like it was his source of life, grinding his teeth against my sore hot spot, making me go crazy. He was a hungry zombie, feasting on his pound of flesh, and I stood no chance against his darkness.