Chapter 8: Liquid Courage
The glow from the massive television painted the penthouse living room in shifting hues of blue and orange. Explosions bloomed silently on the screen, cars flipped end over end, but the sound was turned down low, a distant rumble beneath the weighted silence between them. Garrett sat rigid in one corner of the vast, L-shaped sofa, a blanket pulled up to his chin despite the comfortable room temperature. Katy was curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him more than the movie.
Every few minutes, he’d shift, a subtle adjustment of hips or shoulders, a grimace flickering across her delicate features. She knew that feeling. The constant, low-grade awareness of a body that felt both familiar and profoundly alien. The phantom itch of a cock that wasn’t there, the unfamiliar weight and sensitivity of breasts. For her, it was the reverse–a strange, hollow lack where solidity should be, a lightness that felt unnerving.
Her plan felt stupid now, childish. Just cuddle? Like when we were kids? He’d see right through it. He’d built a wall after the bathroom incident, a fortress of guilt and principle. She remembered, with a sharp pang of nostalgia, how simple it used to be to get what she wanted. A smile, a tilt of the head, a certain look through her eyelashes. The power had been effortless, an innate tool she’d wielded without a second thought. Now, trapped in this muscular, angular body, that power was gone. She felt clumsy, obvious.
She ran through scenarios in her head. Accidentally brushing against him when getting up for more popcorn? Too transparent. Pretending to be cold and needing to share the blanket? He’d just offer her the whole thing. Every idea crumpled under the weight of his stubborn decency.
The credits began to roll, a bland orchestral score replacing the movie’s sound effects.
“Well, that was… loud,” Garrett said, his voice cutting through the silence. He started to get up. “I’m gonna hit the sack. Big day tomorrow.”
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her. This was her only chance, this enclosed space, this weird intimacy. “Wait,” she said, too quickly. He paused, looking back at her. She forced a languid stretch, trying to mimic his own easygoing posture. “It’s still early. And that movie was garbage. We need a palate cleanser. Remember how we used to have movie marathons? At the lake house? When we’d just pile on the couch and watch until we passed out?”
He gave a weak smile. “Yeah. I remember. But that was before…” He gestured vaguely between their two bodies.
“So what?” she challenged, leaning forward. “Our brains are the same. The company’s the same. We’re just… in weird skinsuits. Come on. One more. Something dumb. For old times’ sake.” She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the flicker of nostalgia battling his new-found caution. She pushed her advantage. “And we can’t have a proper marathon without fuel.” She stood and walked to the sleek, minimalist bar cart in the corner. “I’m having a whiskey. You want one?”
He frowned. “You hate whiskey. And you know I can’t drink in your body. The tolerance is, like, zero.”
“Exactly,” she said, pouring two generous fingers of amber liquid into a heavy crystal tumbler. She turned and smiled, what she hoped was a convincing, brotherly smile. “Which means one drink will feel like three. You could use the loosening up. I could use the distraction. Live a little, Gar. What’s the worst that could happen?”
He looked from her face to the glass she was holding out. The fatigue from the day, the grinding stress of their situation, was etched into the lines around his eyes—her eyes. He sighed, a sound of surrender, and took the glass. “One. And then I’m going to bed.”
“Deal,” Katy said, clinking her glass against his.
The first sip was a battle. Garrett choked slightly, his face contorting. “God, how do you drink this stuff. It tastes much worse in your body?”
“You get used to it,” Katy said, swallowing her own sip with practiced ease. She watched him over the rim of her glass. She needed to keep him drinking, keep him talking. She put on another movie, something with lots of quippy dialogue, and settled back onto the couch, this time a foot closer to him.
For twenty minutes, they just watched. Katy finished her whiskey quickly and poured another, making a show of it. Garrett nursed his, but she noticed the level slowly going down. She could see the change begin subtly. The rigid line of his shoulders softened. He chuckled at a joke in the movie, a real, unguarded sound. The constant, anxious fidgeting stilled.
“You know,” he said, his words beginning to slur just the tiniest bit, “it’s really weird seeing my own laugh from the outside.”
“Tell me about it,” Katy replied, swirling the ice in her glass. “I keep feeling like I should be able to dunk a basketball.” She shifted again, closing the gap between them until their legs were almost touching. He didn’t pull away.
Garrett’s glass was empty. He was leaning back against the cushions, his gaze softer, lost in the city lights beyond the windows.
“I forgot what this was like,” he murmured.
“What?”
“The buzz. It’s…” He struggled for the word. “Muffled. Everything’s a little fuzzy around the edges. Kinda nice, actually.” He turned his head to look at her, a slow, deliberate movement. “You were right. I needed this.”
Katy’s heart hammered against his ribcage. This was it. The alcohol was a key, turning the lock on his inhibitions. The wall was down. She could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the simple desire for comfort. She placed her empty glass on the table with a soft click.
“I’m glad,” she said softly. She didn’t move closer. She just looked at him, letting the silence stretch, waiting for him to bridge the final gap.
He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy. “We should probably…”
“Probably,” she agreed, but made no move to get up.
He yawned, a deep, genuine yawn, and in the unthinking motion of fatigue and inebriation, he slumped sideways. His head came to rest on her shoulder.
A jolt, like static electricity, passed through both of them. Katy froze, every sense hyper-aware. The weight of his head—her head—was immense. The scent of her own shampoo in his hair. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing against her arm.
Garrett seemed to realize it a second later. He stiffened, started to pull away. “Sorry, I—”
“Don’t,” Katy whispered, her voice husky. She lifted her arm and draped it carefully around his shoulders, pulling him gently back into place. “It’s okay. Just like the lake house.”
He didn’t pull away. His body remained a heavy, warm line against hers, his breathing evening out into the slow, deep rhythm of someone nearly asleep. The city lights blurred into streaky halos beyond the windows. Katy could feel the precise moment the whiskey fully claimed him, the last vestiges of his resistance melting into the plush cushions.
The movie’s end credits began to roll, casting a soft, blueish light across his face. He stirred slightly, blinking up at her. “S’over?”
“Just about,” Katy murmured, her voice a low hum against his ear. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “One for the road? A nightcap. Then we’ll call it.”
Garrett’s brow furrowed, a sluggish effort of thought. “M’really tired, Katy.”
“I know. Just a tiny one. To help you sleep.” She shifted, carefully extracting herself from under his weight. “You don’t even have to move.”
She padded to the bar cart, the silence in the room feeling vast and expectant. The clink of glass on glass was unnaturally loud. She poured a smaller measure this time, a calculated dose of oblivion. When she turned, his eyes were closed again, his head lolled back.
“Here,” she said, guiding the glass to his lips.
He drank it automatically, a few deep swallows, his throat working. He coughed once, a rough sound. “Tastes like fire.”
“It’ll feel better in a minute.” She took the empty glass and set it aside, watching him. The plan was working with a terrifying efficiency. The low tolerance of her own body, a fact he’d been so wary of hours ago, was now her greatest asset. He was adrift, unmoored from his own caution.
He tried to sit up straighter, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. “I think… I think I need to lie down.”
“Okay,” Katy said, her voice feather-soft. “Okay, let’s get you to bed.”
She helped him stand, his arm slung over her shoulders, his weight almost buckling her knees. He was all loose limbs and uncoordinated steps, mumbling something about the floor tilting. She half-walked, half-dragged him the short distance to her bedroom, the plush carpet swallowing their stumbling footsteps. The master suite was dark, the king-sized bed a vast, inviting expanse.
He collapsed onto the comforter with a grunt, face first. He was out almost instantly, his breathing deepening into the heavy, unmistakable rhythm of a drunk sleep. Katy stood over him, her own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The city’s glow outlined his form, the familiar shape of her own body rendered strange and vulnerable in its complete surrender. She had done it. He was here, and he wasn’t going anywhere.