Page 27 of Antihero

Devine was pacing in tight circles, draining what remained of the scotch straight from the bottle. He finally halted, bottle swaying at his side, his torso swaying along with it. For a few seconds he listed on his feet, nearly pitching over. And then he did.

His knees struck the floor and he was vomiting prodigiously, action-painter swaths across the marble, his hands tracing patterns in the finger paint of his bile—Van Gogh’s pyrotechnic stars, Byron’s cloudless climes, Schumann’s Florestanian virtuosity. Tears beaded at the corners of his eyes, springing fully formed as if pushed through the skin itself.

That was good. He needed to purge all the poison.

He groped blindly for his black box, found it, thumbed the button. “Have the maids—bedroom—”

More retching, now unyielding. He looked even more diminutive on the floor, his slender torso, the wreath of soft blond hair around that shiny pate.

Evan crouched before him. “You’re not in control, Devine.”

Devine laughed. “You think this is out of control?” He shoved himself up to sit, wiping his chin, eyes suddenly hard and lucid. “You’re like everyone else. You want all the brilliance with none of the mess.”

Staff ran in, more mops, more buckets.

“You want me to help the girl,” Evan said. “You want me to help you. Then cede.”

Devine glared at him, a wild-eyed stare presaging a violent outburst. Evan met it, unblinking. At last a change rippled across Devine’s face. He stood up, steady on his feet, abruptly sober. He wiped the bile from his mouth and stared at Evan. “Do. Your. Worst.”

Evan walked to the doctor’s bag, opened it, and got to work spiking a 1,000 ml bag.

He approached Devine, Ringer’s solution and IV needle in hand. He stopped in front of Devine, crowding his space. “Give up the vein.”

Devine hesitated. Then he swallowed, cuffed his sleeve twice, and proffered his arm, baring the median antecubital vein.

Evan sank the catheter. Devine didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

Evan handed the bag to Rawlings. “Take him into the other room.”

“Don’t you dare,” Devine said, “ask my men to lay hands on me.”

“Then decree it,” Evan said.

“Why?”

“I need space from you and your mouth. So I can fucking think.” Evan nodded at the door.

Devine’s nostrils quivered. He drew himself up onto his heels, an erect dancer’s posture, suddenly elegant, even dignified. “Ten minutes. Ten minutes and we’ll resume. Then you’ll see. Then you’ll fucking see who’s in control.”

Shoulders pinned back, each movement precise, he glided from the master suite, Rawlings in his wake.

A click as the double doors parted and then swung shut.

A moment of quiet.

Evan exhaled.

The bathroom door opened and Monica stumbled out. Streaks of vomit marred her now-buttoned shirt, untucked to cover the negligible entirety of her micromini skirt. She swayed on bare feet, eyes downcast, her manner confessional.

“There was a girl,” she said. “And I left her to them.”

13Who’s in Control

Monica sat on the bed, shoulders drooped, picking at an already bleeding cuticle. Her pupils were blown shark-wide, her mind coming in and out from a cocktail of drugs, booze, and trauma. “What if she’s dead? If she’s dead is it my fault?”

Evan crouched before her but at some distance. He’d trawled a sheet across her lap, covering the flash of red lace between her legs. She’d stammered out a few mosaic pieces, but he was still coaxing the full picture into view.

She lifted a hand, swept up a lock of California Dreamin’ blond hair. “But I had to get here. I had to.”