Page 39 of Built To Perform

“Come on, guys.” The words sounded distant, my speech slurred. Not that they seemed inclined to pay any attention to me, anyway.

A distant crash: audible even through the closed door, even over the thumping music. It took effort to turn my head to the side, even more to focus on the man next to me, on his brief, distracted frown of confusion.

For some reason the little voice in the back of my skull wanted me to shout out, really really loud.

“You gonna do a strip-tease, then?”

A taunt in that voice, sharp enough to drag my attention back into the room. To the clumsy way someone - was it one set of hands, or two, or more? - was trying to tug my shorts down.

“Wait,” I protested, or tried to. The word odd-sounding to my own ears, mangled. As strange as the hot trickle down the side of my face.

“Don’t worry, buddy.” Another laugh. “We’ll help you. All friends here, right?”

Another loud crash, and a sound like bottles breaking. My eyes insisting I’d seen the wall shake, even as my brain doubted it. Wanted to blame it on the weird blurring of my vision, the way the room seemed to tilt and stretch as I twisted my head around.

And still no speech, even though I knew I should shout. Only sucking down a full breath was so damn hard. Barely the air in my lungs to cough in surprise at the yell from beyond the door.

“WHERE?”

And the memories, the recognition of that voice - so loud, so loud, like I knew I should be loud, and so angry, like I knew I should be so angry - slipping away from me even as I clung to them. The frustration and tension and fear building in my chest like bottled steam, my body unwilling or unable to move despite the pressure. So much so, that when the door burst open with an almighty slam, practically ricocheting off its hinges, I half-wondered if it was my skin rupturing as the trapped emotions found whatever path out they could, damage be damned.

He looked so big in the doorway.

“Eoin!”

And I wanted to smile, to say I was sorry, to tell him I’d been such a fool. To apologize, tell Jefferson I’d known he’d disapprove, and now I’d fucked up and there was something wrong with me. My body too heavy, my muscles not working like they should. Brain feeling like it was barely tethered.

But I couldn’t make the words come, could hardly keep my head up. Only watch, as he pushed into the room - Jefferson’s face like thunder, a fury I wanted to reach out and smooth away from his handsome face - and practically lifted cigarette-breath, bodily, off me and tossed him aside.

I felt the other guys scramble back from me. Couldn’t bring myself to look, though; gaze caught on Jefferson’s intent stare. Feeling like I should announce him, proclaim his arrival like the ringmaster in some grand finale. “This is my big bro, and he’s everything I want to be, and I love him so much.”

I squeaked: shock at my own thoughts, my mind’s daring. Like I should clamp my hands over my mouth, just in case those treacherous words might escape me.

Even aimed at the man holding me upright, the fallout from Jefferson’s glare was scalding.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” The threat like granite slabs falling; like ice caps fracturing.

I couldn’t even lift my arm up to him, as he pushed the stammering guy back. Frustration seething in me with the rising panic, my legs buckling again.

“Jefferson, focus!”

Another familiar voice; long seconds processing as an arm scooped around my chest, catching me just before I hit the floor. The name clicking right as Adam’s worried face filled my vision.

“Jefferson!” It sounded more frantic, his second shout.

More shifting, my vision blurring. The edges seeming to smear as my roommate slid to the side, and then my big bro there too. Frowning with concentration as he leaned in closer, big arms wrapping around me so that he could pull me to his chest.

Barely an effort, it seemed, to stand up with me wrapped around him. It felt so natural for my head to tip into the warmth of his neck.

And then we were moving, the speed of it leaving my vision spinning, through the door half off its hinges and out into the club. Catching glimpses of toppled chairs and tables, and Harvey sprawled on the floor - his expression fearful, as he gripped an arm dangling at an angle even through my blear-eyed daze I knew was unnatural - before Jefferson’s long strides took us to the door, and through, and out into the cool, dark night.

And I did my best to cling to him - my lungs full of his scent, his heat a furnace even to nerve endings that felt numb, cauterized - as a second darkness, one inkier and infinitely thicker, like liquid velvet, overcame me.

Chapter Nineteen

The team medic was a dour man at the best of times. Brusque, in a way which my bros had compared to a veterinarian. Not so much a lack of care as a bedside manner that presumed compliance and little in the way of useful feedback to his task.

“Did you see them open the drink they gave you, or was it already poured?”