Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) (12 page)

The room spins and my head is killing me. I can’t remember much of what happened. That’s going to bite me in the ass later. These past days have been a blur. Shaking the memories of my visit to my parents’ with alcohol had been a bad idea. My own fault.
I
let my parents wear me down to the ground until the most stupid comment made me storm out of their home. The call where my father threatened me was the last drop. I drank during the plane ride, went to a bar, and finished the arsenal of beers Matthew had in the house.

My worst mistake was fucking the barfly. Sex and alcohol are a bad combination. Holy shit, does this mean I cheated on Decker? No. We aren't exclusive, are we? No, we agreed on that the last time I was . . . drunk. Shit, I need to pull myself together. The most I know about our relationship is that we keep it under wraps. I wish I could look deeper, find some meaning to what we have, but I don’t have the luxury to think beyond what we do now. Not if I want to remain sane. Shit,
what am I doing?
What am I doing to him and to myself? Matthew and I should stop fucking around, but my stomach drops with the thought of losing my friend if we stop our other activities.

I shove the door of the bathroom open and head to my room. I have a light buzz going through my head but nothing major. Maybe I shouldn't think much about my future. After getting dressed, I make my way outside to look for Matthew.

“You sober up?” I spin around to find him staring at me with arms crossed and a worried look. “What’s going on with you? You disappeared from the face of the earth for almost a week and when I see you again, you're wasted. Is it your parents again?”

My head drops.

“This shit isn’t any of my business, but maybe you should seek some help.” He points at a trash bag filled with empty bottles. “You drank the entire supply of beers, dude. That’s sick. And apparently you do stupid things while under the influence. Twice. Or maybe more. What would I know?” He holds up a bar coaster which has the sloping writing presumably of the girl I fucked. What was her name? Cindy? Lindy?

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, while fighting to settle the plethora of emotions that are shaking my mind and my soul. Fuck, what have I been doing . . . thinking?

“Tristan?” His concern invites me to unload my entire week, but as I release each word, I conclude that this—us—has to come to an end.

We’re friends, friends that have a great time in and out of the bed. My issue is that he’s a man, and sooner or later I’ll break if we continue . . . what we have. Yes, this loving but hiding shit is just getting old. If only I could break every single chain and find a way to let myself be happy.

“I think we should stop what's going on between us,” I blurt. Yes, what I say is the opposite of breaking the parental grasp.
Fuck.
“I can't . . . we can’t continue this, Matt. It's been weeks since it started. Pretending is killing us both. This is hurting you as much as it hurts me and I’m hating myself for that . . . for giving you some unnecessary pain because you’re not being truthful to yourself.”

The weight on my back increases with those words. I don't feel any lighter than I did when I thought about cutting “the benefits” of our friendship.

“That's for the better,” he says in a low voice. His crystal blue eyes don't change, and it's as if he doesn't give a shit. “You’re right, I can't continue hiding either.” He places a hand on top of my shoulder giving me a reassuring squeeze. “Look, things between us will never work out, but we can remain friends, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” I act casually. Although the physical shit is important, I care more about my friend. I can feel my body beginning to relax, and I needed that. The knowledge that no matter what, I still have my friend. “As if I can shake you off, Decker. You're hard to get rid of,” I state, instead of telling him that I’ve learned to care for him and it’d kill me if I lose the only best friend I’ve had in years. “Glad we're not an item or this'd be considered a break up.”

Neither one of us says a word, but we both laugh. The sound erases that buzz I carried, and the guilt of having to sneak around. Yes, this was the best solution for both.

“I’m here to listen, dude.” Matthew pats me on the back, taking me into his arms. He gives me a quick kiss. “I will miss fucking you, but I’d rather see you sober.”

One good thing came out of all the shit I've been through in the past months. Matt. I am going to miss fucking around with him. More than he will know. The words I read a few months ago come back to me:

You're not alone.

Today I believe them. I have a friend.

T
he screeching sound coming out of the speakers is deafening me. I wish I could poke my ears and escape, but my hands are too busy preparing drinks. The music continues, as the singer is about to finish destroying Green Day’s “Walking Contradiction.”

“I’m a walking contradiction, and I ain’t got no right.”
The off-key, tone-deaf dude ends the song.

“Thank you, everyone.” The clueless frontman looks around. “We’re Monopoly, a walking contradiction—like you.”

Some giddy women from the audience holler at him. Others start clapping and suddenly they are asking for an encore. I bet an encore of another great band. Not these wannabe kids who actually seem to think they have a shot at hitting it big. Probably knowing that from time to time we have scouts around, they played U2, UB40, Green Day, John Mayer, and Frank Sinatra. A big repertoire to entice whoever has come to check them out. It’s not that I don’t enjoy them, but my ears will be happy when they’re gone.

I can show them what a real walking contradiction looks like, or acts like. They have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. I’m one. I can’t stand loud noises and small rooms with lots of people. Yet, I work here at Silver Moon. A bar. Have I mentioned that alcohol and I also have a long and tumultuous relationship? The career choice is a coincidence that helps me strengthen my self-control every night I work here.

I’m many things. Wear multiple hats and assume multiple personalities. Learned to do so from a young age. Survival instincts and all that fucking shit. I could write for BuzzFeed: Ten best places to hide. Best ways to avoid yourself. How to skip family reunions. Become a new version of yourself. How many jobs does it take to survive? Natural ways to subsist without medical benefits.

When I decided to move on with my life and become a new person, I didn’t think about the future. Not a single thought was given to what would happen after I started college. In fact, I had no idea what to major in during my freshman year. During year number four, after picking up a major and minor—English and Psych—I had a glimpse about said future. I wanted to help others.

That epiphany meant continuing my education for another four years. Did I think about the student loans I requested at that time? No. Did I think that becoming a therapist was more than merely finishing a degree? No. Now I’m scrambling to deal with all those bumps. Including paying the outrageous interests that my student loans accumulate every month.

Once I reached my freedom and broke the chains, I believed everything was possible. The sky was the limit . . . until I was limited by everything. Essentially money. Figuring out how to survive took me some time, and therapy.

“T, I’m heading back to the office,” Reed, my boss, calls out while walking away. “Don’t start a brawl.”

I stick out my tongue and turn my attention back to the bar. He thinks he’s funny, and I haven’t burst his bubble. I love the man. When I came to ask about leasing the apartment upstairs, he offered me the job too. It was after he told me the stratospheric amount and I gave him the extended version of why my life sucked. Including that I owe my soul to several financial institutions that paid for my education, and that as of now I haven’t received my counselor license. He not only understood my issue with the rent, he also provided me with an income.

Bartending is my first job. The second is my on-line jewelry store,
“Butterfly Creations.”
My third is a side gig that my good friend Molly Shields provided a couple years ago too—editor. She sends me over stuff to edit. The gig pays well. This is what my generation has to endure: Multiple jobs, low pay, and zero medical benefits. Being an adult sucks. Just like Sunday open mic.

When I check the stage, there’s a new band setting their instruments. Two chicks dressed with black gowns, and two dudes with raggedy black T-shirts. I’m curious about what they’re going to play. Some punk rock, Goth tunes . . . original shit or another round of poorly performed covers.

I let out a big exhale and start wiping the counter. Everything is stocked and I don’t have much to do. I’m bored. The tip jar is empty and the clientele thin. Tonight sucks. Only Reed would think that adding a mic night will bring in more patrons. In fact, I think it scared his regulars. But I’m here because he pays by the hour and hopefully the tip jar will end up half full by the end of my shift.

“’T’sup, my butterfly?” My stomach flutters with that low voice. Matt Decker. There hasn’t been a time that my lips haven’t drawn a smile from the energy of his presence. Mr. Sin-on-a-stick. He drips sex and makes anyone salivate just with his nearness. “Anything sounded good tonight?”