Page 14 of Relapse

“Bullshit.”

“You’re being sexist.”

“In what world does me saying you’re still to fucked up to walk come off as sexist?”

“My world, obviously. Though who's to say if it's a real world and not just another made up hallucination.”

She shifts slightly against me trying to regain some dignity, but all it really does is press her tighter against my shoulder, warm skin against my arm while her laugh bounces around the concrete stairwell.

And fuck me if that sound doesn’t hit harder than it should.

“You know,” she says conversationally, “most girls would probably find this hot.”

“Most girls don’t mouth off this much.”

“Aw,” she coos. “So I’m special.”

I snort quietly despite myself, tightening my grip slightly when she nearly slips again from moving too much.

“You know,” she says conversationally from over my shoulder, “this is exactly how girls end up chopped into little pieces on true crime podcasts.”

“You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

Unfortunately?

Yeah.

I really fucking do.

Her fingers drag lazily against the back of my shirt while I carry her upstairs like she weighs nothing, and every second of it feels way too familiar already. The smell of her perfume mixes with smoke and sweat and the leftover heat from the bike ride, crawling under my skin in a way that makes it hard to remember why staying away from her was ever supposed to be a good idea.

By the time I unlock the apartment door and set her back on her feet, she’s grinning at me like she won something.

Cocky little addict.

She wanders inside immediately, looking around while I shut the door behind us.

The apartment’s dim, still dark from blackout curtains covering most of the windows, city light bleeding softly across concrete floors and black walls. Music equipment sits near the living room, helmets and tools scattered around the kitchen island beside half-empty liquor bottles.

Blair turns slowly in a circle.

“Wow,” she mutters. “Very serial killer chic in here.”

I toss my keys onto the counter.

“You want coffee or are you still surviving exclusively on substances and bad decisions?”

She points at me immediately. “That attitude right there? Exactly why your little side drug hustle Yelp reviews would suck.”

“I don’t think drug dealers get Yelp reviews.”

“They should. Consumers deserve full transparency regardless of the type of business.”

I move toward the kitchen while she continues snooping through my apartment like a nosy little raccoon.

The room eventually settles into silence for a second.