Page 3 of The Beautiful Collision
Cold beer floods my throat. The carbonation fights back immediately, trying to escape through my nose, my eyes, and possibly my soul. But I lean into it, opening my throat like I’mtrying to unhinge my jaw, slamming it down because Iliterallycannot afford to lose.
And because I’ve got a reputation to maintain.
Peripherally, I catch Mike matching me gulp for gulp, smooth as a machine. Rook’s already sputtering, and I’m sure he won’t make it. Kellerman’s making sounds whales use to communicate distress. Schmidt drinks like he’s following a YouTube tutorial.
My eyes water. My stomach screams. But slowing down means losing aura and money, and I can’t afford either. So I drink harder, beer escaping down my chin and soaking my shirt. Three-quarters down, Mike’s still right there, and Cooper’s gaining like a fucking Terminator, but I think I’ve got the others covered.
“DONE!”
I slam the empty pitcher on the bar, victory roaring through me. Mike finishes half a second later, then Cooper. Schmidt sets his down with laboratory precision. Kellerman’s still fighting his way through the halfway mark, looking like he’s drinking pure piss.
And Rook?
He’s on the floor, but his pitcher is empty.
“FIVE MINUTES, EIGHTEEN SECONDS!” Someone shouts. “TWO SECONDS OFF THE HOUSE RECORD!”
“And Kellerman!” I point at our sophomore, still struggling. “Currently entering minute seven of his spiritual journey!”
He flips me off without breaking concentration. Good man.
“Pizza’s on Baby Ben!” I throw my arms wide, almost taking out a passing waitress. “Eight larges, boys! Make him suffer!”
The team erupts. Money changes hands on side bets. Someone’s already listing topping combinations, and there’s an argument about whether breadsticks were included in the stakes. Mike claps my shoulder—that specific weight that saysgood showandyou okay?in the same gesture—and I just give him a nod.
“Fuck your mother very much,” Kellerman gasps, finally finishing, looking like he’s been waterboarded.
“That’s the spirit!” I drag him into a headlock-hug hybrid. “Keep practicing, and you’ll be a real boy one day!”
“Keep practicing and I’ll be dead,” he croaks.
My phone buzzes against my leg. I know without looking it’s either Mom with an update or my manager cutting my weekend shift. Either way, the night’s young and these idiots still need their ringleader, so I decide to ignore the phone for now and give myselfonemoment of respite.
“Victory lap!” I bellow. “Shots for the conquered and water for the winners—we’re sportsmen, not savages!”
They surge forward like I’m dispensing communion wine. And just for now, just for tonight, their laughter’s almost loud enough.
Almost.
Forty-seven dollars to my name, and my sister’s wheezing through another night.
Fucking spectacular.
As soon as my apartment door thuds shut behind me, it’s like someone cut my strings. All that top-shelf bravado I’ve been pouring down my throat at O’Neil’s burns off faster than money at a strip club, leaving me leaning against the wall, considering exactly how fucked I am.
No roommate to cushion the bills.
No furniture worth selling to get in front of my credit card statement.
There’s the Craigslist couch—forty bucks and a tetanus risk—that still reeks of its previous owner’s life choices. The coffee table that tilts where the duct tape surrendered last week. The TV that only works if you hit it just right. And, as if on cue, the fridge contributes a death rattle.
Jesus Christ, stop being such a pussy.
The thought arrives in Dad’s voice, even though he’s never actually said it. He never needed to, because the Hamilton family assigned roles at birth: Chloe drew “sick kid who needs everything,” and I pulled “healthy kid who should shut up and be grateful.”
Twenty-two years running, and I’m still nailing my performance.
With a lengthy sigh, I shove off the door and stumble kitchenward, legs wobbling and mind grinding through the math. Three bucks a beer at O’Neil’s means I literally drank dinner tonight. And tomorrow’s breakfast. Hell, at this rate, I drank next month’s… uh…
