Fish & Chips (Cut & Run 3)

“Get in the shower,” Ty ordered tiredly. “Get warm.”

Zane nodded and laid a hand on the wall as he took a few wavering steps, but when a wave of dizziness threatened, he considered kneeling down there and being miserable for a while. The arguments he remembered without even the faltering filter of intoxication left him feeling ashamed and unworthy. He felt sick thinking about the very first glass of whiskey.

Ty moved around him, struggling out of his wet trousers and leaving them and his soaked briefs in a puddle on the bathroom floor.

He grabbed an artfully rolled towel from the basket on the counter and began wiping himself off. He glanced over at Zane as he finished up, looking him up and down with clear contempt. He tossed the towel at the floor in front of him. “Goodnight, Corbin,” he muttered as he walked past him, his shoulder brushing Zane"s none too gently as he moved toward the bed.

Zane squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before he walked slowly to the bathroom, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

He got the shower started, turned it up hot, climbed in, and slumped against the wall. His eyes burned, irritated from the saline used in the pool. Between that and the shower spray, it was easy to explain away the tears scattering down his cheeks.

Chapter 8

WHEN Zane woke, it was sudden. His eyes snapped open as he inhaled sharply, and he jerked upright to look around, heart already pounding.

“Morning,” Ty greeted drily from where he sat on the couch. He wore a thin pair of pajama bottoms and fuzzy pair of slippers and had his heels propped on the table in front of him. He was flipping through a book of Sudoku puzzles.

Zane blinked at him several times, trying to process through the adrenaline. He couldn"t remember if he"d been dreaming or what had woken him. It had been a long time, weeks, since he"d awoken so abruptly. He was sitting up in the bed, nude under the tangled sheet, and his chest and throat hurt. He needed a drink of water, because he was parched.

Then Zane remembered why.

He drew in a slow breath and lay right back down so he could stare at the ceiling.

“Water and ibuprofen on the table there,” Ty offered as he sipped something out of a delicate china cup. The butler service had obviously already been there to deliver breakfast.

Zane tried to swallow and couldn"t, so he rolled to his side and reached out a hand that was embarrassingly shaky to pick up the glass.

In short order the ibuprofen was down, the glass was empty, and he was again looking at the ceiling. “Thank you.” His voice came out very raspy, even after the water.

Ty merely hummed in response, his attention back on the Sudoku book in his hand. He was being surprisingly cordial this morning. Zane really hoped it wasn"t to cover serious anger. Ty could still be furious, even after working off some of it during the debacle in the pool. Zane raised both arms and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Not so much because his head hurt—he"d never really suffered classic hangover symptoms—but because remembering how upset Ty had been hurt more than any dunking.

Ty didn"t speak again. The only sounds he made were the clink of the china as he set it aside and the shuffling of the pages as he turned them.

Well, drawing out the inevitable would only give them both heartburn. “How much trouble am I in?” Zane asked hoarsely.

“I"m not your keeper, Garrett,” Ty responded evenly. “No one died.”

Zane sighed. He knew no one had died. He knew exactly what had happened last night. He just didn"t have perspective, because when he drank, he focused in on whatever he thought his goal was to the exclusion of everything else. Last night, Ty had been part of

“everything else.” That was the problem: Ty wasn"t his keeper—Ty was his conscience.

Zane sat up and scooted back to lean against the headboard.

“Lorenzo Bianchi brought Corbin Porter a present,” he rasped. “A sign of goodwill and respect between friends, he said.”

The hardness in Ty"s eyes didn"t fit with the fluffy bedroom slippers. It was almost comical. “I suppose the word „moderation" isn"t in an alcoholic"s vocabulary, hmm?” he asked easily. If he was still angry, he was hiding it well.

Despite the lack of outward signs of anger, every comment cut deep. Zane felt hollow as he met Ty"s eyes. “I didn"t think my tolerance would have dropped so much,” he said softly. “I thought I could handle it.”

Ty continued to look at him, his face expressionless. The lack of emotion was wholly unlike Ty; usually he couldn"t be trusted to hold his temper and his eyes were easy to read. The lack of outward emotion simply meant he was trying very hard to hide whatever he was feeling.

Finally, he set the book aside and pulled his feet off the table. “At least you know that for the next time,” he observed.

Zane wrapped his arms around himself, knowing he wouldn"t get any sympathy or comfort. Ty had never given him any reason to think he suffered addictions like Zane did, and despite making an effort not to drink around his partner, Ty"s reactions suggested no small amount of disdain for Zane"s substance abuse problems—ever since his first snarky comment eons ago when they"d first met: “What, you’re a recovering alcoholic ? ”

Ty certainly didn"t want to hear Zane boo-hoo about it. Zane wished, though, sometimes, that Ty would at least acknowledge how goddamn hard it was for Zane to say no to so much every single day of his life.

Ty was still watching him. “You do realize you"ll probably be expected to drink again, right?” he asked softly.

The thought hurt Zane so badly inside that it had to show on the outside somehow. He could still taste the liquor, and his throat and belly burned for it. He nodded jerkily. It would make everything easier to handle, clearer to see, smoother to swallow. It would cool him off and soothe his nerves. And with every sip he"d damn himself further.

Zane knew that when that bottle was back in front of him, he wouldn"t be able to handle it.

“You"re just going to accept that?” Ty asked him in frustration.

He stood up quickly, one of the fuzzy slippers in his hand. He held it up, waved it, then tossed it angrily at the wall. “Why the hell am I the only one that cares about that?” he shouted as he came closer.

“I care about it. There"s just nothing I can do about it,” Zane answered.

“Bullshit!” Ty snapped, jerking his head as if he"d just bitten a piece out of something.

“Will you listen to me for once! Just once!” Zane yelled angrily.