Page 78 of Stupid Dirty

Eventually, he continues. “Even before you got together, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. That kind of attention can go to your head. Especially for someone who’s always been shortchanged in that department. That feeling can get addictive. But there’s a fine line between being intense and being toxic, and you guys seem intent on fucking all the way over it.”

More silence. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? I love that Silas looks at me like he’s desperate to keep me close all the time. I’m pretty sure if he didn’t, I’d be spinning out all the time, wallowing in my own insecurities.

Maybe that’s toxic. Or maybe that’s just all our psychological damage complimenting each other.

I chew on my lip, turning his words over in his mind as we pull up to our destination. I switch on the lights to make ourselves known and hop out of the cab. What Tristan said bothered me enough that there’s probably a lot of truth to it, but I don’t have time for introspection right now.

All thoughts of Silas get shoved to the back of my brain as I pull down the shutter and switch my brain into work mode.

“He’s over here.” Rolla is already walking out of the front to meet us, with a pissy expression on her face.

“Are you the one who called it in?” Tristan asks.

“Yeah, I called. He’s been here every night this week, drinking himself into the ground, but he can normally drag himself out of here. Tonight he made it as far as the parking lot and now he refuses to get up. I didn’t wanna call the cops on him, though.”

As she talks, she leads us around the one story building that houses the bar and pool hall, The Last Glass, which is popular among the residents of Possum Hollow mostly because it’s the only bar you can go to without having to leave town. I don’t need to be led, and neither does Tristan, because we’ve been called outhere for bar fights and overdoses on more than one occasion, but Rolla is polite and I love that about her.

What we find in the back is what I expected; a figure slumped against the dumpster, semi-conscious and sitting in a puddle of his own vomit.

What I am surprised to see is that it’s Travis Rush.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, pulling Tristan’s attention to me as he keeps walking over. All he does is raise his eyebrows, and I know I have to spill. Silas will be embarrassed, but he’s going to find out eventually, so I might as well save us the time so we can focus on his care. “It’s Silas’ dad.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shoot sky-high, but he doesn’t say anything about it as he crouches next to him to take vitals.

I kneel down in front, getting in Travis’ face and checking to see how conscious he is.

“Sir, can you hear me? Do you know your name?”

“Travis.” His eyes stay closed and his voice is rough, but at least he got that right.

“That’s right, Travis. Do you know where you are?”

“The bar.” Bloodshot eyes open and take me in, slowly but steadily focusing on my face. “I know you,” he slurs.

“Yeah you do, good job. Can you remember my name?”

Although I’ve avoided him since he came back to town, and as far as I know, he’s still in the dark about what me and Silas really mean to each other, he has seen me a couple of times in passing.

Tristan continues to take vitals and jot everything down while I ask him questions and keep him focused.

“You’re the Waters boy. Your daddy’s a scumbag.”

Pot, kettle, but sure. Whatever.

“I won’t argue with you on that, sir. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

He waves me off, and it’s a weird, terrifying echo of how Silas looked when I was trying to patch up his hand whilehe was upset with me. I never really realized how similar they look. Mostly because I avoid looking at Travis so I don’t get overwhelmed with seething hatred, but there are more similarities than I thought.

One of the only things Silas has said about his mom is that he looks like her, not Travis. Right now, taking in his wiry build and pale blue eyes, that sounds about right. But there are little things that connect them. Silas has the same nose as him, narrow and straight with a little dusting of freckles across the bridge. He also has the exact same set to his jaw when he’s being stubborn.

“You’re pretty dehydrated, Mr. Rush, how would you feel about coming with us to the hospital for some fluids?”

Tristan’s voice makes me realize how long I must have paused for, lost in my thoughts.

“Pssht, I’m not going to a hospital. I’m fine.” He struggles to his feet, unsteady but at least not blacking out. Tristan and I manage to get him back to the ground, but he snatches his arms away from us as soon as he’s seated.

We go back and forth for a few minutes, but the old man isn’t budging on the hospital front, and the more we talk, the more coherent he seems. I pull Tristan away for a sidebar.

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