Page 95 of Spilled Coffee

Devon chuckled—a sound that irritated Brick much more than it should. He plucked the cap off his head with a flourish, then with an exaggerated bow, leaned over and placed it atop Brick’s disheveled hair before stepping back with a wink. “Hey, cowboy… don’t worry.” He sauntered toward the bathroom without looking back. “You were great.”

The bathroom door clicked shut before Brick could muster any kind of response—not that he actually had one. He sat for a moment, staring blankly at the floor.

You were great.

His stomach twisted violently.Fuck.He buried his face in his hands, his elbows digging into his bare thighs hard enough to leave marks.

He didn’t care.

The pillow he held precariously balanced across his lap slipped to the floor, leaving him fully exposed in every sense of the word. His hands moved to instinctively probe at himself—his thigh first, then around to his butt—searching for anything unusual: soreness, bruising… some freakin’ clue about what happened.

There was nothing. No physical evidence to explain why everything felt so wrong. It was almost as if someone had taken an eraser and scrubbed everything past midnight from his mind.

“Shit,” he breathed out slowly, then reached for his phone, which lay on the dresser. The screen lit up as he touched it and displayed Ethan’s name near the top of his call list. Unanswered.

He hit redial without thinking. “C’mon…” he whispered as the phone rang once… twice… three times before clicking to voicemail.

“Parker—leave a message.” Ethan’s voice sounded familiar though somewhat tinny through the speaker before it cut off abruptly with a beep.

“Fuck!” Brick hissed, ending the call and tossing the phone onto the bed where it bounced once before settling against the pillows.

His spacious apartment felt oppressive now, quiet except for two sounds: the shower running in rhythmic bursts from the bathroom and Brick’s own ragged breaths filling the bedroom.

He leaned back and let his shoulders press against the side of the bed.

His skull pounded and nausea roiled in his gut as a black hole swallowed up all the details from last night. Flashes came back in pieces: the bright strobe lights, way too many shots of tequila lined up on the bar, the girls laughing… but then… then there was nothing.

“What the fuck did I do?”

The water stopped, and the bathroom door clicked open. The sound was sharp in the stillness, followed by the faint squeak of damp feet on the floor, the shuffling of fabric, and a weary sigh.

Brick’s eyes snapped open, pupils contracting against the light as a shadow moved past the bedroom doorway—a fleeting silhouette that sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

Then there was the unmistakable clink of the front door, the lock snapping shut.

Devon was gone. Silent as a ghost, he’d vanished into the morning without so much as a goodbye.

Brick was alone. His cap was laid on the floor, almost mocking him—like it knew something he didn’t.

He rubbed at his temples, leaving red streaks on his skin. Tequila doubles—oh, man… he remembered those clearly enough. Devon’s grin? Yeah, that too was burned into his brain, sharp and gleaming like a knife.

The girls… them leaving… that was one of the fuzzier parts, and beyond that… there was nothing.

The room felt hostile now, each object a piece of evidence in some grotesque crime scene. Tangled sheets spilled over the bed like discarded skin. One lone sock dangled precariously off the corner of the mattress while the top of the dresser was a battlefield of half-filled shot glasses.

Brick’s boots rested against the wall near the door, one upright and stoic, the other toppled on its side like it had given up halfway through guard duty.

“What the fuck happened to me?” he muttered as he stumbled to his feet, grabbing the dresser for balance as he made his way to the window.

The blinds clattered loudly when he yanked them shut, plunging the room into shadows. The dimness dulled some of the blinding glare but did nothing to ease the nausea twisting his stomach into knots.

For a moment, he caught his own reflection in the mirror—pale skin with dark crescents hanging heavy beneath bloodshot eyes stared back at him.

His stomach lurched at the sight of a stranger wearing his face, and he instinctively pressed a hand to his mouth as bile threatened to rise.

Where were Abbey and Lisa? Wafts of their perfume still filled his nostrils, and he could picture them clearly. Their bare shoulders shining under neon lights as they pressed against him on the dance floor. They’d been all over him, their hands sliding across his chest, laughter spilling from their lips as tequila burned its way down their throats.

And Devon…

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