Where There's A Will by Jessie Walker

Author:Jessie Walker [Walker, Jessie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

18

Will Foster

“Shit!” I yelp, jerking and losing my balance on the stool. Before I can get a grip on the bar, I go down in a tangle of uncoordinated limbs and stool legs.

Hard.

It’s definitely not one of my most graceful moments. I hear Waylon’s laughter upon my fall, which is louder than my groan of pain.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss. But it quickly melts into a laugh because whiskey is beautiful like that.

“Damn,” Waylon pants through his laughter. “You okay, man?”

I hear his clothes ruffle as he makes his way toward my sprawled-out form.

“Nope. Can’t move.”

“Poor baby,” he intones, his sock-clad foot bumping my calf.

And because I’m apparently a child when inebriated, I kick my foot out.

Waylon lets out a curse before landing next to me, his ankle draped over mine.

Now I’m the one laughing my ass off.

“Asshole,” he grunts, rolling onto his back. “I think you broke my hip.”

“I think I broke my ass.”

“Pity.”

I freeze.

Waylon freezes.

A flash of light paints the ceiling gray; the only sign that the world hasn’t stopped altogether. That there are still two hearts beating on the dirty floor of a bar. Two sets of lungs straining for air, as if we’re both trying desperately not to draw attention to the massive elephant now crushing us.

“I didn’t say that,” he whispers, his voice getting lost in the wind whistling through the crack beneath the door.

“Okay,” I breathe, not moving a muscle, because suddenly, I’m quite aware of Waylon’s proximity. And he just said it was a pity if I broke my ass. Even if he took it back, it’s still a resounding echo in my head. Two measly syllables that pack a hell of a punch.

I don’t even realize I’m grinning like a fucking loon till he elbows me in the side. “Stop it.”

“Make me.”

He stiffens, and I swear he mutters under his breath, “Don’t tempt me,” but that can’t be right.

Darkness falls around us like a thick shroud, only broken up by the strobes of lightning shooting in from the windows. Everything’s all shadowed edges and staccato movements as I roll my head toward Waylon.

A foot twitches against mine, and I know I should pry myself away—work on standing up. But my limbs are heavy and the world is spinny and my brain is honed on to that single point of contact like a compass in a sandstorm.

And he’s not moving away.

Why isn’t he moving away?

Something gives way in my head, making room for another body. We are the eye of the storm—cradled by a bubble of safety in the midst of chaos as it rages around us. It’s quiet here. So, so quiet.

And dangerous.

Misleading.

“I’m so drunk.”

“Me too,” I whisper.

Our words hover over us like a sealed promise.

His breathing seems to pick up the longer we lay there on the floor.

Minutes pass.

“I don’t like the dark.”

I blink. Slowly, I roll my head to face him, wondering if I heard him correctly. I can’t make out much; just his profile in shadow, save for the lightning flickering over his face every few seconds.

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