The Eyes Of Wonderland

#Chapter9-02

#Chapter9-02

"Come in." He stepped aside and waved an arm to the wide stretch of hallway behind him. "How did you get here? You're completely soaked."

"Walked." I shrugged past him. "Where's my phone?"

Holding up a hand, he nodded at my feet. "Shoes off. You're not tracking that through my house."

My eyes followed his. The lighting was dull, the hall unlit and a breeding ground for shadows, but I could just about make out the puddle that had formed beneath my shoes. Watched as droplets fell from my fingertips and jacket like a leaky faucet. Reluctantly, I kicked them off. Which wasn't as easy as it sounded. My fingers had numbed to the point of defectivity, and cold water slid from my hair and down my face, blurring my vision.

"Here." I hadn't noticed him leave, but he came striding back down the hall, a navy towel in tow. "Dry yourself off. Your phone is in here. Can I get you a warm drink? Tea, coffee?"

"Don't drink it." I snatched the towel. Patted my face dry. Winced as it highlighted just how sore and tender they were, and just how badly my teeth were smacking together.

"What do you drink?"

"Doesn't matter. I ain't staying."

"Not right now you're not."

The scrub-a-dub-dubbing came to an abrupt halt. Lowering the towel, the freshness of the detergent still filling my nose, I shot him a dark look. "Excuse me?"

Because surely I had heard him wrong.

But Deacon didn't seem the least bit intimidated. Squaring his shoulders, he met my gaze dead-on. "You're not walking back home in this. Call a cab. Call a friend. Or even let me drop you off home, but you're not walking. Not in this weather. So while you wait, what am I getting you to drink?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but something in his expression, the way his jaw jutted into a stubborn thrust, it had it snapping back shut. Scowling, I snarled, "Water."

He gave a satisfied nod. "Good boy."

I'd never wanted to punch somebody in the face so badly before.

The grey decor bled into a dark blue as he led the way to the living room, a straight path from the front door. There was a bareness to the place, a simplicity that only just managed to capture a cosy feel. A long, narrow couch hugged the wall as we walked in, and a recliner cosied up opposite, both overlooking the flatscreen that dominated the back wall. But beyond that, I couldn't see much of anything that told me who Deacon was as a person. There were no pictures up on the wall, or any magazines, or anything like that on the small table beside the armchair.

"Phones there." He jabbed a finger towards the end of the couch. A lamp was at the far end arm, but only the shade was visible. Took walking over to realize that there was a quaint unit stuffed behind it. And sure enough, my phone was sitting there, resting on top of my wallet.

I checked it. Wasn't sure why. Was I expecting it to magically grow money? Even when I carried it on me, my cash would always end up stuffed into my pockets.

"Battery is gonna die." Scowling at the lowly percentage mark in the corner of the screen, I pocketed the ID holder and spun back to face him. He wasn't looking at me. He was frowning at the floor. Turned out taking my shoes off was real f*****g effective. The imprint of my feet had left a trail behind me. Then again, considering my socks squelched with every step, it was hardly surprising. "You got a charger?"

Deacon shook his head. "I have an iPhone. My tablet charger might fit it, though."

I sneered. "iPhone wanker."

After he ran upstairs to fetch the charger, bringing down a pair of dry socks and the declined offer of dry clothes, I plugged the phone in. It was an older model, one bad drop away from the junkyard in the sky, and it had the uncanny habit of refusing to give notifications if the charge fell below twenty percent. As soon as it got a lick of power, the thing went nuts, buzzing and throwing out an assortment of noises as they all came gushing through at once.

"What kind of tool mixes Samsung and Apple?" I muttered, shrugging out of my jacket. A grimace formed as the sleeves of my shirt stuck to my arms, but even still, I refused to take the hand outs he offered.

He didn't answer. Dipping off into the kitchen, he left me alone. Gave me a chance to pick through my messages and missed calls. There were dozens of them-- somehow, reading them, I'd never felt more alone.

There were a handful from my mom from last night and this morning, but I deleted them. She'd already bitched at me when I had arrived home earlier. Didn't need a reminder. Oz had sent me one. It was just a stupid gif, but I couldn't help but smile at it. There had been a time when we would speak every day without fail. If I didn't see him, we'd text. Without. f*****g. Fail. And then Blake and his stupid f*****g family-wrecking ways had come between that. We spoke once a week now, if that.

The worst part was knowing that he was right there, just a phone call away. Just a few miles away. But at the same time, being unattainable. It was a b***h.

Some were from Micah. He'd texted asking where I'd gone last night. Then again this morning asking if I wanted to go out again with him and the boys. I didn't. f**k, after the f****d-up outcome of last night, I was half convinced I'd never drink again. I was also convinced that conviction would have shriveled and died the first time somebody handed me a bottle. Jordan, my kind-of friend and Micah's shadow, had sent a couple. A few girls had sent a few messages, which I ignored.