CHAPTER 17: You see him sitting at the bar, his back to you, but his tattooed, naked arms unmistakable, as you set foot inside Joey's bar an hour later, a heavy stone of anxiousness and nervousness in your gut, making you feel kind of bad. You fear he might be drunk yet again, that this is nothing but a repetition of that night when you had to take him home because he'd literally drank his brains out, and as you walk towards him, your legs shake a little. You reach out, tapping him on the shoulder when he's within reach, and he turns, looks at you, and a flood of relief washes over you.
It's immediately obvious that he's not drunk.
As he talks, you realize that he has been drinking, though.
''Hey,'' he says softly as his eyes drift across your face, and you nod, and take a step forward, sitting on the stool next to him. His breath smells like alcohol.
''Hey,'' you answer, not coldly, but with a certain sharpness, just audible enough for him to notice and understand that he's not popular with you - cause you want him to know.
''I'm happy to see you,'' he murmurs, and when you look at him, his eyes are gentle, and his voice is clear, steady, and not drunk, meaning he's aware of what he's saying. No drunken words this time.
''Thank you,'' you say coolly, slightly sarcastic, but despite your rather obvious rejection of his statement, his eyes remain soft. He turns silent for a few seconds, seeming thoughtful, not moving his eyes off of you, and then he gestures towards the glass of scotch on the counter before him.
''Want a drink? It's on me,'' he offers then, and you hesitate briefly, then shrug. One drink won't hurt, it's on him, and you really wouldn't mind having something help you calm down a little. Your heart is beating too fast, although you're just sitting there beside him, and you know it's because you're nervous about why you're here, talking to him after five days of silence.
''Sure,'' you agree. He waits.
''What?'' he asks, and you blink and look at his glass.
''Uh, just... whatever you're drinking, I guess.''
Adam shouts to the bartender, and a minute later, you're sipping scotch like Adam, trying to relax. He says: ''Cheers,'' and you knock your glass to his, lifting the glass to your mouth but stopping when Adam bottoms up and empties the glass in one pull. He winces, and then put the glass down. You stare at him, and then you take yet another little sip. Adam bursts out laughing, and you look at him.
''What?'' you ask annoyed, knowing he's laughing at you, but he doesn't seem remorseful, even though you throw him a hurt glance.
''When I do a bottoms up, you're supposed to do it, too, you know,'' he chuckles, like it's basic knowledge, and you just missed out on a very important lesson in social drinking, and you glare at him, wondering whether to surprise him and do it, or to stay pissed and ignore him. ''Come on,'' he encourages, and you think about it for a few seconds, then raise the glass, put it to your lips, and turn it over. The scotch burns all the way down your throat as you swallow the whole thing, and you cough, hearing Adam's soft chuckle above your own choking noises. Despite the fact that you feel like you can't breathe, his hand on your back distracts you for a brief second, and you hear his voice, warm and concerned and caring.
''Are you okay?'' he asks, laughter still in his voice, but not as evident, and not taunting, and you clear your throat, feeling your airways letting oxygen back in, and nod.
''Yeah,'' you promise, although you're not sure it's convincing, and he smiles, and let his hand fall from your back.
''Want another?''
You consider it for a moment, not sure it's a good idea. Drinking wasn't the reason why you came here, you came here to talk, but... maybe he just needs to loosen up a bit before he's ready to tell. Besides, it'd be nice to relax for at bit, too. Your anger towards him is fading as you sit here with him, maybe because the conversation you just had with him over the phone seemed so sincere, or maybe because he seems so kind now, but either way, you're figuring maybe you should just give him a chance to go through it all on his terms. Maybe that'll mean he can talk to you for real, tell you what he wants to tell you, so you can set this weird thing straight.
''Yeah, I'll take another,'' you nod.
''You know, it's all so fucked up...'' Adam mumbles next to you on the bar stool, gesturing around with his first beer on top of his four glasses of whiskey, and his eyes are dark, genuine, sad as they look at you. ''I don't know what to do, you know... I mean, I miss her, and... I mean, I just feel like crap, with all these things that's been going on. I just wanna... I don't know, you know, go back to her, but at the same time I don't wanna... It's so damn confusing.''
You look at him, into his eyes, feeling so awfully sad for him, wanting to hug him, wrap your arms around his muscular back. You know it's his girlfriend he's talking about, although he didn't say so before he started talking, and you're pissed at her for doing this to him, for leaving him like this. He's heartbroken, and you want to pick up the pieces and put them back together, you want to caress his hair and tell him he'll be fine. You want to comfort him, make him feel happy again, take him away from this overcrowded bar, because it's way too hot, and sweat stains are forming on the neck of his T-shirt, and it's so sad, so sorry for him. You feel sad. It's so hot you can't even think. You're feeling kind of dizzy. You take a pull of your beer to cool down, like him, and the sleeves of his T-shirt are sticking to him, outlining the muscles in his tattooed arms.
''I just feel so fucked up, you know, I just wanna break something all the time,'' he mumbles, and his voice has a deep, rough tone to it, rough like the scruff on his jaw. You kind of want to touch it. ''I'm a mess. I can't do anything. I just want to get wasted.''
''I think you are,'' you say quietly, meeting his dark gaze, filled with dark feelings, and he's silent for a second, and then he says: ''Like you.''
You shake your head.
''I'm not wasted,'' you dismiss, blinking, holding the eye contact. ''I'm fine.''
''Oh, yeah? Lemme tell ya, you're as fucked up as I am,'' he states, and he takes his beer bottle to his mouth, pouring. ''Cause I gotta piss right now. And I'm not in the fuckin' mood to stand up, you know.''
''Well, you better piss at the bathroom, or I'll kill you,'' you threaten, and he looks at you, and chuckles darkly. Everything about him seems dark. He falters as he slides down the bar stool, and you sigh and slowly jump down next to him.
''I'll help you,'' you offer, but it's more of a command than anything else, and he obeys, grabbing hold of your shoulder as he starts walking, his hand pulling down some of your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin. You grab around his waist, trying to support him. Together, you manage to make it to the bathroom after almost falling once or twice, and as he walks into a stall, closing the door, you stand by the bathroom wall across from it, waiting. Your head spins, and you still feel hot, although you're no longer in the bar itself, and a minute later when Adam comes out of the stall, you see the sweat stains on his chest, making the shirt stick to him.You can see his nipples underneath.
He goes to the only sink with slow steps, turning on the water, washing his hands, and then he walks over to you, reaching out for you again to get support. His hand grabs your arm, and his eyes stare into yours, dark. You can hear him breathe, and you feel dizzy. His hand slides up, underneath the sleeve of your shirt, he looks into your eyes, you can't think, your head is spinning, it's so hot. His chest is hot as it presses to yours, but not as hot as his lips, his lips, they're soft. They touch yours, part slightly, and so do yours, you feel his tongue sliding inside your mouth, and you feel like falling cause you're so dizzy. Time starts to fall apart. His warmth, his mouth, sweat, his bare skin as you touch it, roam over it, his hands, both on you, it's so hot in this room.
"Come on," he says.
You don't know how, but you move, a bigger bathroom, with a lock on the door. It turns, clicks, and then it's all back: the sweat, the warmth, his hands. His skin is soft, so is his hair, your hands are in it. He lifts you up, and you hold on to him for dear life, and then suddenly, you feel him. Oh my God. You feel him.
And then it's all oblivion.
