Serves Me Wright (Wright #9) - K.A. Linde Page 0,87

Jordan had been the optimistic one about Owen’s repentance. He’d been the one to convince Julian to give him another chance. But Jordan was hardened, and Julian wasn’t. Jordan had always protected him, and now, he’d pushed him right into the thick of things.

“Maybe you should get him home,” Jordan suggested.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, pointedly taking back the bottle and finishing it.

Jordan winced. Alcoholism ran in their family. None of them liked to talk about it, but it wasn’t a good sign for Julian.

“Hey, come on. Let’s get going.”

“You have to work still,” he mumbled.

“I got everything I need,” I assured him.

Jordan got an arm under Julian and helped him out of the chair. Together, we hauled him out the back way and toward his Audi. I fished in his pocket for the keys, unlocking the behemoth. I’d never driven the thing, but I’d come over with my roommates, so I didn’t have Bertha here.

Once Jordan got Julian into the passenger seat, I waved him good-bye and pulled out of the parking lot in halting, nervous sputters. The SUV was twice as big as my car, and the last thing I wanted was to wreck his car as I drove him home. Julian spun the radio on and rolled the window down to let in the hot, dusty summer air. Rap music blasted through the speakers, but I didn’t turn it down. He was drunk and hurting and probably needed a shower and a good, long nap. If he had to face his brother tomorrow, face telling his mom, he deserved to do whatever he wanted to cope tonight.

I thought that I might have to carry him through the house once we got there, but he jumped out of the SUV on his own and stepped inside without a word. I dumped the keys onto a table next to the garage door and followed him. I found him in the kitchen.

“Julian,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said as he popped the top on the unopened whiskey and poured himself a full glass. “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

I didn’t know how to help or what I could do. But drinking was probably not the answer.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“You know, I really don’t.” Then he drank it back like a shot.

“Do you think getting black-out drunk will make things better?”

“Nope,” he said, smacking his lips. “I really don’t.”

“Okay.”

He dropped the glass into the sink and carried the bottle with him to the couch. “But I think it’ll make me forget that tonight happened—at least for a few hours.” He patted the couch next to him. “Come. Sit.”

I dropped the camera on the nearby table, kicked off my shoes, and curled up onto the couch next to him. He turned on the television and wrapped an arm around me. I wanted to believe that things would be better in the morning, but I’d never seen Julian like this before.

I worried that what had happened with his dad had broken him in some fundamental way, and I wasn’t sure who he was going to be in the morning.

37

Jennifer

The next morning, I woke to the sound of Julian vomiting in the toilet.

“Ugh,” I groaned, rolling over and covering my ears with a pillow. Not that it did much to hide the sound of his retching.

He deserved it after he’d had so much to drink that he’d passed out. I’d never seen him drink like that, and I hoped that I never saw it again. It was a new level of terrible.

The toilet flushed, and Julian came back into the room, flopping down on the bed. “Sorry,” he muttered, covering his eyes. “Might have had too much to drink last night.”

“Might?” I said with a laugh.

“I’m never drinking again.”

I shook my head. “Lies.”

“Yeah, but, not anytime soon. Or like that.”

“You wanted to forget.”

He gave me a thumbs-up. “Success.”

I chuckled and dropped out of bed. “I’ll find you some Tylenol.”

“You’re the best.”

I rolled my eyes at him as I headed out of the bedroom. I poured him a glass of water and knocked out two Tylenol from the bottle. I carried them back into the bedroom for him.

“Thank you,” he said, downing them and falling back.

“Eggs and toast?” I suggested.

He groaned and shook his head. “Food is a bad idea.”

“Don’t you have breakfast plans with Weston still?”

“Fuck,” he spat into the pillow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Shower,” I said, pointing to the bathroom. “And then some toast.”

He grumbled but heaved his body off of the bed and into the