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The sweet lurch of the jazz had turned to a whiny, high pitched grate against my nerves by the time I downed my fourth cocktail of Espresso Martini. The lounge’s deep amber glow came from nowhere in particular, splintering into shards of light reflected off the corners of sleek furnishings, edges of the patrons hair into honey tones. The low murmur of conversation melded the soft clink of glasses and the occasional peel of feminine laughter into an undefined fuzz at the back of my head.
After having secured the intel on the location of the Counterfeit Protocore trading operation, I sent the evidence off to Jenna to review it. The senior wished me a good night, gentle at first before her voice crackling through the mic softened, likely registering the gravel in mine. Her sigh could be heard right into my ear and then came the edge to it that hadn’t been there before, a kind that I know comes with some tough motherly advice. “Go home and get some rest,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to see those circles under your eyes come Monday. Understand?”
I snorted softly, my laugh swallowed by the smoky air. I didn’t want to go back to my sad little apartment, the one littered with empty bottles and not a drop left to drink for the parched soul.
My body throbbed with the exquisite ache of pain, comforting in contrast to the lead in my heart that ached worse. Lately, I found that if I pushed myself hard enough—strained every muscle, tugged the frayed nerves—there’d be no room left to conjure up haunting memories. I wouldn’t see Caleb’s long face, the dimple that deepened in his cheek when he laughed, or hear the tender quiver in Grandma’s voice whenever she caught us at our games. I wouldn’t remember the secret giggles at the dinner table, muffled behind our hands, while she sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused.
Because I can’t go back to that, even if I so desperately wanted to. Home was a rug ripped from under my feet on a ground whose entire foundation was made up of hidden truths, and I had no one to blame but myself. Like a broken record the day's events replayed at the worst of times.
The final smile, the final words, the door clicking shut, the dynamite that followed. An echoing, ringing, utterly deafening sound. A repeating sensation of being slammed back with the hot searing force–It all regularly had me shocking awake from fitful, sweating sleep, always with a heart running miles.
Nearly three hundred and sixty-three days have passed, and still, I have yet to learn just how much these anniversaries can hurt. It's a wound freshly ripped back open and the clock rewinding to the exact day, time and moment it happened.
I've also come to realize that I don't quite hate the taste of alcohol. Okay, maybe I do hate that dry, acrid burn when it slides down my throat, the way it scours my esophagus like some nasty medicine I occasionally had to be force fed as a child, but I've grown rather fond of the hazy numbness that follows, that warm, giddy lightness that seeps into the veins and becomes part of the skin. Because now I have nothing better to do than wallow, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
For the moment, I can pretend I'm underwater in this overpriced Jazz lounge and the world above surface is a foreign concept. Life? Issues? Secrets? What are those even?
I shifted slightly, feeling the icy, tufted leather beneath, the icer air of the lounge raising goosebumps on my exposed arms. Then there’s a tilt in the atmosphere, a subtle alteration that I sense more than hear. I don't have the energy to raise my head, but I’m sure of a presence breezing past my booth all the while wafting a unique, earthy cologne—something unfamiliar, rich, and dark– the unknown figure settles into the opposite seat.
I can almost taste their arrogance and confidence, but to my clouded mind, it's kind of charming.
It took a moment for the gentle tap of the glass placed beside my head to register, a flirtatious pass of a dice to my court and I’m weighing the idea of a one-night stand and whether it was even a good notion.
Ah, fuck it.
My fingers curled around the cool glass as I rose, feeling the carefully crafted bun Tara had fussed over all evening flop at the nape of my neck. I’m not one to turn down a perfectly good drink. My head tilted back for a long swig—courtesy be damned—only to feel cool hydrating liquid go down my throat.
Blinking dumbly, I glared at the glass, like it was a sentient object that came alive to spite me, when the trickster himself spoke up.
“I thought you could use something to soothe your throat, Sweetie. A glass of water never killed anyone.”
His voice is soft gravel yet polished to a crisp. The sound lingered, curling around my thoughts and I tried to work out why it was so irritatingly familiar. For a second, I thought it to be Zayne. It sounded like something he’d say. That cool, disapproving tone he’s lately been using on me. I could almost see his sharp, angular face, pinched as he adjusts his glasses and sighs.
But no, this voice was different—deeper, silkier, with a playful baritone lilt that made me think this was what Jazz was always trying to replicate. There was a softness in it though, a gentleness that seemed at odds when I finally made out the sharp planes of his face and the stark silver of his hair.
Maybe that’s why I was having such a hard time matching the sweet sound with the Onychinus leader I knew during my short stint in the N109 zone. And even now, under the harsh lighting of the lounge, I still couldn’t get used to the shark-like beauty of his; A crooked nose, deep-set eyes and that sharp cupid bow to his mouth that was made for his permanent half smile.
I was probably hallucinating again, like I had yesterday when I thought I saw Grandma in my living room.
I took the couch for her lap, stumbled to the carpet, and stayed curled up on the floor, clinging to the armrest as if it were her hand stroking the back of my head. It’s embarrassing to think back on.
“Go away. I don’t want water. ” My forehead returned to the mahogany. Setting the empty crystal glass down, I slumped over the polished surface. A shiver racked over. “Gimmie Martini.” My mumbling words were drowned out.
His deep, rich sigh filled the air—so real, so vivid. If it was a hallucination, then it was a very detailed one.
There was another shift in the air currents that came with someone standing, and I found myself draped in the same warm, earthy cologne. The luxurious weight of an expensive jacket settled over my bare shoulders. I hadn’t noticed how cold I was in this strapless dress.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one night, Sweetie?”
“No,” I whined, recoiling slightly at the gentle brush of fingers against my back. “I don’t wanna go home… It’s too dark.”
A long pause stretched, and I was grateful. The very act of talking was sending waves of nausea to my sensitive stomach.
“Then would you like to come with me?”
“No. I'm gonna sleep here so go away. Shoo.” Petulant words muttered into the wood.
A deep, throaty chuckle tickled my eardrums. The seat swayed and the nausea threatened to tip me over the edge, air thick and syrupy, and the music of this lounge was only making it worse with its same swaying melody on repeat over and over again.
“I can’t leave you here Kitten. I'm afraid you might pull your claws out on yourself again.”
“Screw you, I’m human. I just need something stronger.” Short and clipped words escaped through the fingers pressed over my mouth. My face was pulled taut and green with the effort of keeping the nausea at bay.
He sighed above me, and the dangerous swaying intensified ten fold when the room swung to the ceiling and I lost my footing with the ground. Desperately I grasped for something solid, only to catch broad shoulders.
Hot breath fanned over my cheek as he adjusted his hold.
How on earth did he manage that? Even with all the grace that came with being immortal, and with that godforsaken deathly Evol of his that still scared the shit out of me, it’s still a blow to the ego how easy it seemed to be for him. It took me many years of training to hone my physique to where it was if I do say so myself. Though I’m more impressed with him then annoyed.
I must be more drunk than I thought.
With no better options, I use his rock hard shoulders as a makeshift pillow, resting my forehead in the crook of his neck. My nose brushed the Adam’s apple and I heard the sharp intake of his breath, his arms tightening around me in response.
“Sweetie,” he hissed through gritted teeth, resuming his stride. The stupid music and the cold air fading away, the lights becoming a little brighter as we move into a corridor. “Never drink in front of anyone again.”
“I’ll do what I want, you damn crow. You can’t tell me what to do.” I nuzzle closer, inhaling deeply. His cologne is intoxicatingly rich and musky. I can't pinpoint the scent but I want it for myself. “You smell good.”
I can feel his throat bob under my skin, I can feel each and every movement of his sharp exhale through his nose, and the vibrations of a slightly angry grumble. Without a thought in my empty-as-a-rock head, I reach up to pinch it for no other reason than to annoy him but end up bumping my forehead with his chin. We groan in unison.
“. . . .You’re such a handful, Kitten,”
“Sorry,” As an apology, I use the pad of my thumb to rub his jawline. I felt it clench under my touch and a hesitant smile tugged at my mouth, his ruby frown settling on it.
“Sylus,” I say, the name stretching, slurring hazily.
The stormy eyes turn away for a moment, blink, then turn back to meet mine. His expression softened, the lines of his face less severe, though I can still feel his heartbeat at my ribcage and it's not exactly slow. “Yes?”
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
A warm, steady hand rubs my back as I cough up the bitter remnants of my stomach.
“There, there.”
The nausea finally subsides, and I sit back on my heels, breathless, wiping the sweat from my temples with a shaking hand.
Without another word Sylus helps me to my feet. The colors around me are still a blur, and I’m fighting to keep a body made of heavy lead, steady. He guides me out of the hotel bathroom and over to the bed, where I collapse in a graceless heap. With my eyes still half closed I'm nudged into a sitting position.
Something that feels like the rim of a glass presses against my lips.
“Now drink,” He instructs, now with that annoyingly bossy tone I was more familiar with.
I scowl but do as I’m told. “I swear, sometimes you’re just as bad as Zayne,”
A long pause hung in the air. “I’ve seen him entering and leaving your apartment a couple of times,” Sylus says, his voice soft and drawling, a slow hint of displeasure rising within it. “You two seem to be close.”
Ignoring the edge in his words, I drained the last of the water and handed the empty glass back to him triumphantly. “Yup. As close as a cactus and a cat,” I hiccup, feeling the lingering nausea recede, though the room continues to turn a bit. Those damn Martinis were stronger than I thought.
A cold towel brushing against my temple pulled me out of my notions. It glided down my cheeks and jawline, caressing my neck with more gentleness than necessary. The sensation was soothing, almost sobering, and I couldn’t help but sigh into the damp fabric.
“So. .” I sigh hesitantly, “What are you doing here? I thought you went to Chrono City for the month.”
“A certain Kitten’s been going around causing trouble for herself.” The towel covered my eyes but I whined, gripping his wrist to push it away. The haze in my vision settled and I caught sight of those pointed brows permanently etched into his face close to mine and drawn tighter than usual.
Fair skin between was creased with concern, and I was vaguely aware of the two red spots beneath burning holes in my face. Maybe was the drinks dulling my senses or making them sharper in strange ways, but I felt so acutely aware of his every action—the slow, steady exhale, the careful blink, the way his lithe fingers press the towel to my skin with a feather-light touch as to not place too much pressure.
Once again my hand moved of its own accord, this time reaching up to smooth the lines. The tension under my finger melts away instantly, but his brows rise in surprise. A small laugh escapes me, sounding more like a cheeky heh. I hadn’t taken him for being so expressive. “You’re too pretty to get wrinkles this early.”
He followed with a soft chuckle of his own. “Am I not even allowed to worry about you now? Is it only you who gets to suffer?”
I blinked dumbly. “Suffer? What kind of nonsense are you—Ah!” Before I could finish, my face was muffled against his chest, his arm pulling me close with a rough huff. The back of his hand stroked my hair tenderly, rhythmically. Instantly, the tension in my shoulders fades away, and I realize just how stiff I’ve been. It’s uncanny how, he too, was so in tune with what I need.
“Don’t push yourself like this. It’s not a very pretty sight.”
I let out a low grumble, neither accepting nor denying.
“Try to sleep as often as you can,” He continued, gentle and rocking. “I can’t return to you as soon as I want, so until then remember to eat at the right times. If you can, try not to drink too much, and most of all don’t ignore my calls. ”
“You’re not my mom,” I grumbled. His hand moved in slow, repetitive circles across my back. It was making me drowsy despite how uncomfortable the position was, but I didn’t want to move.
His chest shook with a silent laugh, I strained to hear his heartbeat again. “All because I care,” He muttered disappointedly, “Does that make me your mother now?”
I couldn’t hear much of his words at this point, my vision closed in on me. “I wanna. . . sleep.”
Silence fell between us, and I sunk deep into it. His hand, which continued its gentle stroking, was not helping me stay awake either. There was a rustling sound, and the weight of a cool sheet draped over my shoulder.
“Sweetie,” He breathed, “You need to let go of my shirt.”
But my fingers remained tangled there, clutching the fabric with a steel grip.
He sighed, the breath warm against my forehead. Something soft and warm pressed gently into my temple. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
***
I woke in a hotel room with faint memories of a face I could barely recall, a pounding headache and a couple of dozen missed calls and messages on my phone. I groaned, the downy pine-feather comforter tossed aside. Whoever my partner for the night was must have been a big show, considering I’m on the highest floor of the luxury hotel that was an extension of the high-class lounge from the night before. The size of this suite could rival an entire level of the Hunter’s Guild. But strangely enough there is no one else but me here, and I don’t feel the usual soreness or any of the lingering sensations that typically follow a night like this.
When I reached for my phone, something clung to my sweaty palm. Slowly, I unfurled my fingers and found a sleek black button nestled there, as if I'd been gripping it like a lifeline. I blinked, and then it hit me—memories flooding with the force of a ton of bricks and a heaping bucket of ice.
Sylus.
I stifled a high-pitched shriek, the ache in my temples spiked. I dropped my head in my hands, resisting the urge to shove my face into the pillow and scream. Mortification flared hot up my cheeks, the embarrassing recollections occupying my mind against my will–his damn good cologne, his voice, the look in his eyes, and me, nose buried in his neck, the ease of which I touched him, breathed him in like he was a tender flower.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Beyond the tall glass windows, there’s a faint mechanical titter, followed by the flutter of wings, a tilt of a bird's head, but I barely registered it. I was too busy trying to calm a very worried Tara on the phone, mumbling apologies to her angry scolding whilst I tried and failed to keep the embarrassment out of my voice, the sweet scent of a certain crows cologne teasing my subconscious.