Heat Stroke (Beach Kingdom, #2)(56)

His exhausted mind wandered back into blessed unconsciousness.

*

Jamie gave no outward reaction when the unfamiliar man took up residence by the front door of the Castle Gate, but his stomach dropped down to his knees. The guy was their new bouncer, wasn’t he? At breakfast that morning Andrew had mentioned something about hiring a new doorman since Marcus had stopped showing up for work, but Jamie had been listening in a vacuum. Everything spoken in his direction for the last week got sucked up into a whirlwind of noise. Nothing would stick. And goddamn you, Marcus, for confirming it was the end of the world. Goddamn everybody for continuing on like they hadn’t even hit a minor speed bump. Just goddamn everything.

His face ached. His teeth, his brain. But none of the pain had anything to do with the black eyes and swollen nose he was sporting. He knew that because he had the same ache everywhere else, too. In the dead center of his chest. In his bones. He was a walking pulsation of misery. Jamie stood behind the bar fulfilling orders while moving as little as possible. Moving made his legs feel like they were descending into quicksand.

Why was he so angry? Every time he picked up a pint glass to pour another drink, another stupid drink in a never-ending line of stupid fucking drinks, he wanted to smash it on the bar. Or maybe launch it like a fastball at the new doorman who didn’t wave or smile at Jamie, didn’t send him conspiratorial looks or play Britney on the jukebox to make him laugh. He wasn’t Marcus. There would never be another Marcus.

“Johnny Walker on the rocks, please, and another pitcher of Miller Lite,” a customer called to Jamie over the escalating din of the bar.

Jamie moved on autopilot, ignoring Rory’s concerned looks as he fulfilled the order and made change, going to the next customer, the next, the next, and all the while he wanted to rage. Jump up on the bar and punt each and every bottle of beer. Or lie down and sleep forever. He wasn’t sure. But the volatility inside of him was exhausting. Everything was just so exhausting and there was no comfort in sight. Andrew had offered Jamie the night off, but being home was worse. He kept waiting for Marcus to show up at the door.

Or he would sit in the bathtub with the shower raining down on his head, trying to purge what happened outside Marcus’s building from his memory. I’ve used him all up.

Those words, spoken by Marcus, echoed in his mind most of all. Endlessly. They were so accurate and yet, if Marcus walked through the door right now, Jamie had no doubt he would probably crawl to meet him on his hands and knees.

Use me again. I don’t know what else to do with myself.

Jamie turned his back to the bar and took a deep breath before approaching the next waiting customer. Just keep moving, going through the motions. That’s all he could do. If love reduced him to this—a man who put his self-respect second—he could not cave in to the nonstop pain. He could not let the severity of Marcus’s loss put him permanently out of commission. Move, move, talk, breathe, move.

“No way,” Rory growled, coming up behind Jamie at the register and jerking his chin toward the door. “That motherfucker has brass balls coming in here.”

“Who?” Jamie said dully. His breath ran short when he turned and saw Joey working his way through the crowd. Automatically, he grabbed Rory’s elbow. “Don’t you dare do anything, Rory. Promise me.”

“Jamie, he punched you in the face. Now he strolls in here like…” Jamie’s brother trailed off, his forehead wrinkling. “Is he waving an actual white flag?”

“Yeah,” Jamie confirmed dryly. “Although it looks more like a napkin taped to a straw.”

Andrew joined them at the register. “What the hell is that prick doing here?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rory said, crossing his arms. “The only reason I haven’t jumped the bar yet is he looks way worse than Jamie. You’ve got a nice right cross, Andrew.”

“Thanks.”

The three brothers watched through narrowed eyes as Joey sidled up to the bar, still holding his makeshift flag aloft. “I come in peace,” Joey said.

Rory snorted. “How about you leave in pieces?”

Joey sighed. “I just need to talk to Jamie,” he said, red coloring the tips of his ears. “First off, I want to apologize. For the things I said in anger. Things I didn’t mean or maybe…I wasn’t clear on, but I am now. I’m sorry for hitting you. I’m really sorry about all of it, okay?”

The way he shifted on his feet reminded Jamie of Marcus and his chest gathered together like a fist, squeezing. “Thanks.” Self-preservation had him turning away. “I appreciate the apology, but I have to keep moving. I have to get back to work.”

“Wait.” Joey’s expression turned anxious. “Come on, man. I have to make this right. My brother is…broken. He won’t even get off the floor.”

“Don’t tell me this,” Jamie said loudly, his voice hoarse. “I don’t want to know. It’s not my problem anymore.”

“He just keeps watching Ghost, over and over. And the smell. Jesus Christ, the smell. We’re going to have to burn everything he owns.”

Jamie cleared his throat to camouflage the pitiful sound that climbed up his throat. Marcus watching Ghost on repeat, refusing to get off the floor. It was almost impossible to live with that knowledge. It flayed his skin. And more than anything, he just wanted to go live on the floor beside him. Side by side graves.