Page 13 of Enemies Don't

I wedge my fingers into the slivered opening of the pocket and am suddenly very aware of where my hand is.

This won’t be a big deal. Get in, get the keys, get out.

Except, remember how I mentioned that Collin’s jeans fit him like a glove?

It may as well be latex. The kind of glove that’s like a second skin. The keys are cemented in the bottom crook of his pocket, and I have to work to wiggle them loose.

“Ouch! You’re scraping me.” Collin pouts, and I roll my eyes.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

He cracks a grin. “I am. How’d ya know?”

“Because I’m sober.”

“Too bad. This is very nice. I don’t feel a thing.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune in the morning.” He’s going to have a hangover to end all hangovers.

Finally, I get the keys out. I hold them up triumphantly, and Collin has the gall to say in his playful, drunken stupor. “Took you long enough. Thought maybe you were lingering down there.”

“You wish.” I put the key in his lock and shove open his front door.

Collin stumbles inside and dive-bombs face first onto his couch. “Home sweet home.”

His voice is muffled by the cushions.

I flip on the lights and glance around. I’ve never been inside Collin’s place, and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s nice. Neat. The walls are painted a warm gray. He’s burrowed himself on the oversized leather couch that sits opposite a big-screen TV. The living room is open to a dining room and, beyond it, a kitchen.

I head that way. I bang open the cabinet doors and find a glass. I notice a powder room off the back of the house and flip open the door to the cabinet above the toilet. Bingo. Medicine.

I fish out three tablets of ibuprofen and return to the living room with them and the glass of water. On my way, I peek through the sliding glass door off his kitchen and into the backyard. There’s a detached two-story garage off to the side. The upper level looks like a loft of some sort.

When I return to the living room, Collin has rolled over and is squinting at the ceiling.

“How’re we doing, hotshot?”

“The whole room is spinning. I think I can see the moon.”

I glance up. “That would be your living room light. Don’t stare directly at it, or you’ll burn your corneas.”

“Corn-y who?”

“Never mind.” I sit down on the coffee table and use my thumb and forefinger to tip his chin down. It takes him a second and a few extra blinks, but he focuses on my face. “Drink this.”

“So bossy,” he mumbles as he attempts to grab the glass from my hand. He misses wide left, and I sigh.

“Here.” I hold it to his lips, and he laps up a couple sips. “Can you swallow these?”

“‘Course I can.”

I give him the medicine, and he palms the tablets into his mouth. I help him take another sip, and he swallows them down.

“Good. Do you feel sick?”

He scowls. “Why do you think I’m going to puke?”

“Because you’re wasted.”