Zephyr

The bass was hitting so hard it felt like a physical punch to the chest the second I unlocked the front door.

My roommates were completely, utterly piss-drunk by the time I finally dragged my exhausted ass into the living room. The place was an absolute war zone.

The mahogany coffee table—which we had explicitly agreed was supposed to be kept clean—was completely overflowing with empty, crushed beer cans, sticky red plastic cups, and a nearly empty handle of Jack Daniel's.

I knew for a definitive fact that the whiskey belonged to Damien, mostly because he loudly subscribed to the philosophy that beer was strictly for pussies. His exact...