The Lies That Bind

29: The Road to Hell

Cooper's head hurt something fierce.

He supposed that was only normal. Well, not normal—most people weren't getting chloroformed by a friend-turned-maybe-enemy—but normal by his standards, given he'd spent the last twenty-four hours drifting in and out of an uneasy, drug-induced sleep.

So, yeah. His head fucking hurt.

And if he was being brutally honest, so did his heart.

Cooper groaned as another wave of embarrassment washed over him, his backpack heavy on his shoulders as he hauled himself up the stairs to his apartment.

Why—why had he blurted out that I love you at the worst possible moment imaginable? Granted, his mind had still been fuzzy from the drugs that had knocked him on his ass and sent him wheeling through the dark. But still. Why couldn't he have any sense of...decorum, or something? He'd practically blurted the words in Calla's face.

Right before passing out cold. In her lap. And probably while drooling.

Real smooth.

Cooper considered throwing himself off the balcony as he shuffled down the hall to his apartment. He tried to remind himself that it wasn't the end of the world. Sure, Calla hadn't said I love you back, but it wasn't like he'd given her much of an opportunity. He'd practically sprinted from her apartment this morning...

But not before she'd kissed him goodbye. A long, lingering kiss. The memory bolstered him somewhat. That had to be a good sign. It had to.

When Cooper finally stumbled into the apartment, the first thing he noticed was the six pack of beer on the coffee table. The second thing was Vincent.

Scowling at him from the couch.

Oh, Christ, he thought, right as Vincent growled, "We need to talk."

Cooper dropped his bags by the door. "Dude. I'm tired—"

"Calla told me what happened."

Again: Oh, Christ.

Cooper scrubbed a hand down his face. "Traitor," he muttered, throwing himself down on the leather chair Vincent liked to take his afternoon naps in. "What exactly did she tell you?"

"Are you implying there might be more to the story?"

"Dude, it's Calla. There's always more to the fucking story."

Vincent plucked a bottle from the table and held it out. "Okay. Fair enough."

Alcohol was probably the last thing he needed, but Cooper accepted the beer nonetheless. "Well, get on with it."

Vincent cracked open a beer for himself. "Michaels attacked you."

Interesting. Cooper pressed the bottle to his lips. Kevin had attacked him. Not Michaels. But Calla had shown him the picture she'd found on the fridge. Their faces marked out in red ink. The ominous threat penned on the back.

Somehow, someway, Michaels had sent Kevin to do his dirty work. Cooper was sure of it. And so was Calla.

It was the only reason she hadn't bothered to rip out Kevin's throat yet.

"Yeah." Cooper sipped his beer. "But I'm fine."

Vincent considered the beer in his hands. "Why'd he come after you? I thought Calla was undesirable number one."

A dangerous question. "Because...he wants something done. And it hasn't been done yet."

The professor dies, or he does.