Chapter 17

Thursday, January 18th

That night, Patrick dreamed of a paneled room with green carpet and the smell of cigar smoke. He choked on terror and the room changed to a stone fountain decorated with demon angels. Their cold stone eyes watched as Troy

Patrick woke with a start. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the window and he prayed it would wash away the dream. But, when he stumbled from the bedroom, nightmares of bloody faced vampires still hung behind his eyelids.

He dragged a bottle from the cupboard and took a healthy swig. The alcohol swirled in his sour stomach and he retched.

Fuck.

He took a shower and changed, but the reflection in the mirror only marginally improved. His nose wasn't broken, just swollen, and the wounds on his chest were raw and pink; a reminder of what had happened. As if he needed one.

It was early evening when Anthony showed up. Patrick let him in and had barely closed the door when his friend demanded, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm great."

Patrick dropped on the couch and Anthony said, "You look like shit, but you look better than you did last night. What the fuck happened? And what was the deal with the park?"

Patrick chose which question to answer. "There was someone there I needed to talk to."

"In the middle of the night?" Anthony paced a worried circle. "What's going on with you, man? Since Mike came back"he broke off. "No, since New Year's. Is that it? Is this over Hailey?"

Hailey? "What does she have to do with anything?"

"You tell me. You guys were playing tonsil hockey at the party, now she's announcing all over town that she's pregnant and acting like the perfect girlfriend with Mark and you're what? Sulking? Moping? Hibernating?"

"This has nothing to do with Hailey!" Patrick's voice was louder than he'd planned and he backed it down a notch. "I don't care what she does. I'm done with her."

"You're sure? I mean, really sure?" Patrick growled and Anthony laughed it off. "A'right, let's go get some food."

***

The cheeseburger tasted like cardboard, but it made Patrick feel better. When they finished eating, they went to Anthony's house and burrowed in his bedroom with a six pack and a new video game.

Anthony's mother leaned in and scowled. After a lecture, she disappeared, and Patrick grinned sloppily. "When are you gonna move out?"

Anthony scoffed. "Don't start acting high and mighty on me. You been moved out what? two months?"

"Three," Patrick corrected.

"Yeah, three, and you ain't got a new job yet, so you'll be going back."

Patrick stopped from mentioning the cash from Michael. "You've got no room to talk, you only work part time."

Anthony popped open a new can. "Yeah, but I got a lot more cash than you."

"Shit. Half of that ain't from legal employment."

His friend grinned and pulled open his nightstand drawer. "Speaking of that. I got some new shit from Dan. Check it out."

The bag shimmered in the light, and Patrick gratefully took the balm it offered. "If you make so much off this stuff, why don't you get your own place?"

"Coz then I'd have to pay bills instead of buying cool shit."

Patrick had to agree with the sad fact of adulthood, but it beat living with his mom. After all, one day he was going to do more than this.

If I live that long.

Friday, January 19th

The next morning, Patrick woke under a blanket on the floor, vaguely aware he'd been stepped on.

Twila stood over him, her red hair in a ponytail, and her jeans on a nearby chair. "Sorry." She giggled and wormed her way into bed, next to a sleeping Anthony.

Patrick took that as a hint to leave. He made a quick stop in the bathroom, raided the kitchen cupboards for some questionable breakfast bars, and headed out.

The January sun was bright but the closer he got to his apartment building, the less cheerful it seemed. He unlocked the door with a heavy heart and gazed at the mess inside. It was more than he could deal with.

He found his phone lying on the kitchen counter and plugged it in. He had the laundry gathered by the time there was enough juice to turn it on. Then he made a call.

"Hey, Mom. Whatcha' doin'?"

***

His mother's place wasn't the sanctuary he hoped. He was sitting on the couch next to his mom, a plate of instant macaroni and cheese on his lap, when Michael walked in. Patrick nearly jumped to his feet, and it was only quick reflexes that saved his dinner from the floor.

"What are you doing here?"

"Good to see you, too," Michael mumbled, his top lip nearly immobile.

Probably to hide his fangs from Mom.

The thought twisted Patrick's stomach.

Their mother nodded toward the kitchen. "Have you eaten? There's some mac-n-cheese left."

"No, thanks." Michael's smile was tight. "I need to talk to Pat."

"You can't talk to me?" she asked, half teasing, half serious.

Patrick had a childish desire to hide behind his mother. It was useless, so he asked, "What's up?"

Michael motioned him down the hallway, away from their mother's prying eyes and ears. Patrick followed reluctantly. He was barely out of sight when Michael grabbed him by the shirt collar and whisper-hissed in his ear, "What the hell are you doing?"

Patrick jerked away. "Laundry, man. What's it to you?"

"You're supposed to be at the fucking manor! They sent me to fetch you."

Patrick shuddered. "Why am I supposed to be there?"

"Because you're his fucking slave. Did you forget already?"

"But"

"Come on." Michael dragged Patrick through the house. At the front door he threw an apologetic look at their mother and mumbled, "Sorry, I need to borrow him. He'll be back for his laundry tomorrow." Then he pulled his brother out into the cold night.