It was strange how things changed in the speed of a night. How many countless times Matt woke in the week that followed, to the wrong, empty space where Bailey had been. How life around the barn slowed and how the world around him mummed. He couldn't remember how he'd done it before, livin' like this. With no one to speak to but the television set and the dead man no longer in his head.

And then he remembered, he had Jay—who, concerned as he was, shared an equal amount of sudden fascination with suits and bouquets. And Tisper, who had spent the past hour flipping through her historical feminism paper and highlighting areas of concern. Neither of them had been paying much attention to how many beers Matt had. Wasn't their fault, they didn't see it. Matt didn't have the energy in him to do much but smile and tell 'em nothing was wrong. Talking about it would just agitate the wound.

But there was person in all of the bar who'd been watching him since the start of the night—the well-groomed patron, who wore plaid last Matt saw him. Only a little less groomed now and a lot less plaid. Matt wondered at first if it was Tisper or Jay who caught his eye, or if maybe the scruff overtaking his face didn't look as good under the bar lights as it did in the mirror back home. Maybe he was an eyesore.

And then Matt remembered: Right.I'm famous.

"Lavender's cute, Jay," Tisper was saying as she turned pages and chewed on the eraser of her pencil. "But too much and the entire ceremony's gonna smell like an old lady's bathroom."

"But it's Quentin's flower," Jaylin said, putting an X through the word lavender on a college-ruled notebook. "And roses are overdone."

"Carnations, then?" Tisper asked.

"I don't even know what those are.I told Quentin he should just plan everything himself."

"He's too neurotic," Tisper said. "Everything would have a color scheme, from the tuxes to the toilet seat."

Matt felt the weight of eyes resting on him. He caught the gaze of the coiffed-headed boy, who turned his stare away and bobbed the straw in his drink.

Kiss him, Tisper told him last time. See if you feel anything. Maybe she was onto something.What if it wasn't just Bailey? What if he could feel that way again? What if he just wasn't into women?

Matt'd never wanted to be gay so bad in his life.

"He's not that bad," Jaylin was saying. "Yeah, he showers every day and yeah, he garnishes grilled cheese. But I like the way he puts everything in place after I fuck it all up. And he likes the way I fuck things up."

"Maybe I'm just jealous." Tisper sighed and slapped her pen down with emphatic defeat. "Have you seen Felix around at all lately? Isn't he supposed to be with Quentin like...all the time?"

"Usually, but Quentin says the society hasn't seen peace like this. At least, not in America. This is basically his first vacation in a decade, can you blame him?"

"I can blame him," Tisper pouted, her cheeks a tint of rose. "Bought him that nice beer and everything."

Eyes again. This time, when Matt found the plaid boy, he was escaping his table. Muttering polite apologies to his friends. His eyes crossed Matt's, bleary ghosts of his denim shirt streaking behind as he rounded a corner toward the bathroom.

Matt stood, beer sloshing in his belly, numbing his knees.

Bailey was too good looking to wait for someone like him. He'd find a guy in Idaho. Maybe one, maybe several. He'd forget about Matt 'cause His story was there. And Matt's story...maybe Matt's story didn't have to end yet. Maybe Bailey was in the pages he'd tear out one day.

"Where are you going?" Jay asked as Matt stumbled free from the leg of his chair.

"Bathroom," he uttered.

The lights in the bar smeared and slurred and Matt stumbled down an empty hallway toward the shudder of the men's bathroom door. The lights inside were pale and strenuous. He knocked shoulders with a man as he staggered in with little berth. The door shut behind him and Matt shifted there awkwardly on the dingy tiles. "Hey," he called to the plaid boy before he could situate himself in front of the urinals.

He paused there with a hand on his fly and turned to Matt, who pressed himself back against the wall and took in the room. Empty, but for them.

He found plaid-boy's smudging, dancing eyes again and asked, "What is it for you?"

His brows tucked and his lips parted and it was a moment before plaid-boy asked, "What?"

"What about this—" Matt gestured to himself, "—does it for you? Or is it 'cause everyone around here thinks I'm some kinda fuckin' god but won't talk to me? What is it for you?"

Plaid-boy's brow creased in the middle. He took a moment to touch his splotchy pink face and glanced around in hesitation. "I don't know what you're talking about.I just—you're my type."

A pin pricked Matt's heart. You're my type, Cowboy.

Matt stepped forward, took plaid-boy by the front of his open button-down. "I'm gonna kiss you."

"Okay—"

Before he could end the word, Matt kissed him. Once, then twice, then he walked him back against the wall of a robin-egg-blue stall and kissed him again. And when he felt nothing the first three times, Matt held him by the side of his slender neck and kissed him three times more.

The boy's hands were gentle—nothing like Baileys. They touched Matt in meek, nervous ways. Around the waist. Up his chest. In his hair. And he kissed Matt back like he'd never known how to kiss a thing before. Like maybe this was his first time, with a guy at least. His nervous breath slipped from tangled lips and tongue, feeble hands curling at the cowlick of his hair.

Matt kissed him hard and he prayed for something. Anything. He prayed for anything.

He hadn't imagined nothing could hurt so badly.

He shoved plaid-boy away—hard against the stalls. He looked flustered and startled and so blurry, Matt couldn't differentiate between his eyes and his nose. His face was one big swirling knot of pink and black.

"Sorry," Matt said, a sick, heavy feeling on his tongue. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replied, awkward wrists wiping at the wet on his lips. "Did I...?"

A stall door clattered shut, soft, leisurely footsteps wandering around the bend. Matt made out only the short blond curls as the shape floated toward the sink. "It's not you," said the stranger, with a voice Matt knew too well. He shook his hands dry and once all the lines of his face came together in Matt's whirling vision, he recognized Gabe's sandy freckles and brown eyes.

"He just got out of a wild relationship," Gabe said. His face was scuffed—a purple scab on his high-cut cheekbone, a mending crack on his lip. "We need to have a private conversation," he said. Plaid-boy looked between them, adjusted the front of his jeans, and left the bathroom promptly. Probably assumed Gabe was talkin' about the two of them. Gabe wasn't Matt's type. Gabe wasn't Bailey.

Gabe tore a paper towel from the dispenser and dried his hands. One palm, then the other. "Where is he?"

"Idaho." Matt's words tangled as he slumped back against the stalls. A faint bite of mint lingered in his mouth from the mojito plaid-boy had been drinking. "He's fine."

"How do you know that?" asked Gabe. "Have you tried calling him?"

"I know 'cause he's not here," Matt said.

Gabe's gentle face hardened and he wiped both set of fingers up the sides of his hair—flattened it under his palms. The kinda thing Bronx did when he was too exasperated for words. "Have you tried calling him?" he asked again. "His phone is off. His numbers not in service anymore, he—"

"Don't you get it?" Matt's feet, numb as they were, carried him closer. "He's runnin' away. From you. From me. This place is a stain and we're just...stuck in it."

A hand snapped against his cheek and sent Matt reeling back. He hit the wall and clutched the pain and Gabe was in front of him again, wrenching him in by the collar. "I get you miss your boyfriend, but get your shit together. Rico has never wanted anything as badly as he wants to get his hands on you. Do you know what Bailey was to him? He was a prodigy. Rico was gonna mold him into the perfect den leader. You took away his prodigy."

"Good."

Gabe shoved him back against the wall. Matt's head echoed against the wood and the world spun around him. "Good? Rico is going to destroy you, take my word for it. When you killed Gannon where do you think his wolves ended up?" There was a dance of emotion on his lips—the way they twitched, like they were holdin' back the weight of a million words. Something cold was deposited forcefully into Matt's palm. "You have to do it. You have to kill him. You're the only one he can't smell—can't hear you, you're untraceable."

Matt looked down to the vile in his hand. "What—"

"Wolf's bane. It's all I have. Stick him with it. He's a lot less dangerous as a wolf, trust me."

"Less dangerous?"

The bathroom door opened. Footsteps echoed against the tile. Gabe shifted closer for discretion. "Trust me," he whispered. "So long as he's alive, Bailey's never coming back."

Bailey. He wanted Rico dead from the beginning, because of Bailey. But how was he going to take on a man—a wolf three times the size of himself? He needed Raven back. But Raven was gone and Bailey was gone, and it was just Matt. The worst weapon anyone could've asked for. Matt.

"Matt," called a voice from the door, and when Matt raised his head, Jaylin stood there—steely, dagger eyes on the back of Gabe's head. There was a stubborn way about him that'd only come into fruition since his transition into a warden. The urge to shelter anything considered his. "Everything alright?"

Gabe's slender hands uncurled from Matt's shirt and he scuffed backward on the speckled tile. "Trust me," he said one last time. Jaylin stepped aside and allowed him to leave, and Matt slipped the wolf's bane into his back pocket before those fast, blue eyes spotted it.

The door shut soundly and Jaylin stood suddenly taller than Matt remembered, his hands tucked in his oversized jacket. "What was that about, Matt?"

"Just a jealous ex," Matt lied."Bailey had a lot of 'em." He stumbled forward on numb feet, eager to return to Tis. She was probably still waiting at their table. Probably shielding her drink from shady men and dodging phone numbers and liquored breath. 

Jaylin caught him by the elbow before he could make it to the door. "If something was going on, you'd tell me, right?"

It took several slow, drunken heartbeats to focus on Jay's cornflower eyes, but when Matt did, he saw all the pain that lived and died in 'em. He saw the ghosts of their tears the day his mom died and the night Bronx laid there bleeding out on the throne room floor. And Matt decided there wasn't any more room in them for sad stories.

He pulled Jaylin's hand away. "Yeah, Jay. Come on."

And he slipped by and into the flickering lights of the frowzy hallway, praying he was as untraceable as everyone said he was. Prayin' it meant Jay couldn't sniff out the lies in him.

an; Thank you guys for your input on the paid stories program. I was blown away by your support. Nothing is changing just this moment. I haven't decided what to do yet but I'll keep you updated :)