Cut and Run 3 - Fish and Chips by Madeleine Urban ; Abigail Roux

Author:Madeleine Urban ; Abigail Roux [Roux, Madeleine Urban & Abigail]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-10-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

WHEN Zane woke, it was sudden. His eyes snapped open as he inhaled sharply, and he jerked upright to look around, heart already pounding.

“Morning,” Ty greeted drily from where he sat on the couch. He wore a thin pair of pajama bottoms and fuzzy pair of slippers and had his heels propped on the table in front of him. He was flipping through a book of Sudoku puzzles.

Zane blinked at him several times, trying to process through the adrenaline. He couldn’t remember if he’d been dreaming or what had woken him. It had been a long time, weeks, since he’d awoken so abruptly. He was sitting up in the bed, nude under the tangled sheet, and his chest and throat hurt. He needed a drink of water, because he was parched.

Then Zane remembered why.

He drew in a slow breath and lay right back down so he could stare at the ceiling.

“Water and ibuprofen on the table there,” Ty offered as he sipped something out of a delicate china cup. The butler service had obviously already been there to deliver breakfast.

Zane tried to swallow and couldn’t, so he rolled to his side and reached out a hand that was embarrassingly shaky to pick up the glass. In short order the ibuprofen was down, the glass was empty, and he was again looking at the ceiling. “Thank you.” His voice came out very raspy, even after the water.

Ty merely hummed in response, his attention back on the Sudoku book in his hand. He was being surprisingly cordial this morning. Zane really hoped it wasn’t to cover serious anger. Ty could still be furious, even after working off some of it during the debacle in the pool. Zane raised both arms and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Not so much because his head hurt—he’d never really suffered classic hangover symptoms—but because remembering how upset Ty had been hurt more than any dunking.

Ty didn’t speak again. The only sounds he made were the clink of the china as he set it aside and the shuffling of the pages as he turned them.

Well, drawing out the inevitable would only give them both heartburn. “How much trouble am I in?” Zane asked hoarsely.

“I’m not your keeper, Garrett,” Ty responded evenly. “No one died.”

Zane sighed. He knew no one had died. He knew exactly what had happened last night. He just didn’t have perspective, because when he drank, he focused in on whatever he thought his goal was to the exclusion of everything else. Last night, Ty had been part of “everything else.” That was the problem: Ty wasn’t his keeper—Ty was his conscience.

Zane sat up and scooted back to lean against the headboard. “Lorenzo Bianchi brought Corbin Porter a present,” he rasped. “A sign of goodwill and respect between friends, he said.”

The hardness in Ty’s eyes didn’t fit with the fluffy bedroom slippers. It was almost comical. “I suppose the word ‘moderation’ isn’t in an alcoholic’s vocabulary, hmm?” he asked easily. If he was still angry, he was hiding it well.

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