Chapter Four
By the time Colt gets to his house he's seething. Usually when you imply that you need time to yourself, no matter what it's for, other people respect it. That's the courteous thing to do. Marc Fiarri had flat out said no to him and the more he thinks about it the angrier he gets.
After parking his bike and removing his helmet, Colt goes inside and heads straight to the shower. He's careful with his fiddle in setting it down but everything else is slammed about as he prepares for and takes a shower.
Parts of his crotch are still crusted with his own cum. He scrubs himself clean. He brushes his teeth and rinses with a powerfully mint mouthwash, finally feeling like he's removed the taste and scent of himself from his lips. Finally.
He pulls on a pair of cutoff sweatpants that are now shorts, frayed at his knees and a tank top and lets Emmitt inside after filling up his bowls with water and food.
Food might do him wonders too. He starts making himself a grilled cheese sandwich. While he's cooking, he thinks through everything he wants to say to Marc and comes to a small conclusion.
They need time. Colt needs space to think.
It's times like this when his emotions are all over the place, when the control he thought he had feels tenuous at best, when he has no time to sort things out and think things through in a proper fashion, that he wishes he drank it all away like his father did. Colt knows that he's not a mean drunk like his father was. He's scared of becoming that though.
He's not so scared of it that he isn't all too aware of the third of a bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter that Marc had left over here.
He knows it's there. His gaze keeps slipping over to it again and again until he's staring at it.
In the end he reaches out for the whiskey, unscrews the cap and takes a big gulp right out of the bottle. It burns as always and he's making a face at the taste when he realizes he's burning his sandwich. Colt sets the bottle down and quickly removes the pan from the burner.
This day. It's one of those days.
Colt is scraping the burned bits off of the bread with a butter knife when he hears the roar of an engine outside. A glance through the window shows Marc getting out of his shiny blue sports car. There's a moment where Colt thinks not to let him in or even answer the door, but that's just rude.
He thinks through what he wants to say to Marc one more time. Before Marc even knocks, Colt pulls open the door and stands in the way. Any and all words leave him as Marc has a fresh cut on his lip and a bruised cut on his brow. Those wounds weren't there earlier today.
"What the hell, Marc?" Colt steps aside, letting the other man inside and staring at him. He shuts the door. "What happened?"
Marc sets a new brown paper bag on the table and a bag of take out alongside it. His duffel bag goes to the floor. "Don't worry. I gave more than I got."
It's the same thing he's said before and Colt just shakes his head. "Who are you fighting with?"
"I think I'm fighting with you right now, Vanilla."
Colt's lips thin and he instinctively reaches out to put a hand on Marc's forearm. "Seriously, Marc. Tell me what's goin' on. You can talk to me."
All he can think is that someone is out there habitually beating Marc up and Colt can relate to that more than he cares to admit. But maybe admitting it will help Marc talk about it and get help.
"Hey..." He squeezes lightly where he's holding Marc's shoulder. "I've... I've been there, okay? I've been where you are right now and I know it's hard to speak up or fight back-"
"Wait. Somebody beat you up?"
Colt thinks he's getting somewhere and he quickly nods. "Yeah. Yeah they did. That's why my nose is crooked. It's been broken twice. I've had a dislocated jaw before. Broken wrists and ribs. I've been where you are."
"Give me a name."
This suddenly isn't going how he planned. Marc doesn't look like he's about to have some miracle breakthrough. He looks like he wants to punch someone. He looks frightening.
Colt shakes his head. "I think I might've misunderstood."
"Who beat you up?"
"Marc this isn't about me. I'm just trying to let you know that you're not alone."
Marc leans in close and inhales. "You smell like whiskey."
This isn't going at all how he thinks it should. It's almost dizzying; from anger to concern to frustration to confusion.
"I might've had a sip." Colt gestures toward the bottle that he apparently forgot to put the cap back on. When he looks back at Marc, the man is grinning crookedly and Colt is only mildly disappointed that he feels himself grinning too. "I told you, it's been a long day."
Marc's large hand cups the side of Colt's face, thumb gently smoothing over the stubble there. "You can have more."
"I don't need more. Thanks though."
"There's always a need for more, more of everything." He tilts his head toward the brown paper bag. "I brought more."
Colt looks over to the bag and back to Marc. "Are you gonna tell me how you got the new bruises?"
"Are you gonna tell me who hit you?"
