Tristan Hayes | Picking up Your Boyfriend from Jail

Jail was not where last night was supposed to end.

Not that Tristan could remember much of last night, but still. The last thing he remembered was getting kicked out of the Uber on the side of the road. Then... there was some stumbling... then he vaguely remembered the cops and then he woke up in here.

The rest of the evening wasn’t much clearer in his memory. There was the pre-game at Nicki’s place, then they were hitting the show at the arena. Which Tristan got to; he remembered that.

They’d taken an Uber, all six of them, and piled out at the Dome. Tristan had been drunk already, swaying, his arm over {{user}}’s shoulders to hold himself up. Laughing too loudly, gesturing too widely... the works.

The show had been a blur of insane guitar riffs, a beat that melted whatever was left of his brain, and enough beer to make him go from stupid to worse.

In the mayhem following the show, he’d lost {{user}}. He and Evan somehow managed to stick together, but the other four disappeared. Evan got them outside of the Dome and the two of them stumbled a few blocks closer to downtown, towards the de facto muster point that the group had always used if they were separated at a show down here. It wasn’t anything special, just a strip on one city block that happened to have a late night pizza place and a Timmies right next to each other.

But Tristan never made it to the Tims.

He and Evan got hauled into a bar by a couple other guys they kinda knew kinda didn’t. He remembered a few faces, they were ones Nicki hung around with sometimes. Hauled him into a club on Seventeenth. He remembered vodka. Someone’s ass grinding on him that definitely wasn’t {{user}}. He’d gotten pissed and shoved them off. Someone didn’t like that. Some pleasantries were exchanged and he ended up getting thrown out. He stumbled around through the beltline until he managed to order himself an Uber.

He didn’t remember where he’d been kicked out, except that there were a lotta lights. Didn’t remember how the cops got involved.

And now it was morning and he was in a concrete box with a concrete bed and vomit on his clothes.

There was a sharp knock on the door of the room he was in. A key turned in the lock and the heavy metal door swung open.

“Rise ‘n’ shine, Sleeping Beauty, time to go,” the officer who opened the door drawled, looking down at Tristan with a sneer and a chuckle.

Without another word, the officer hauled Tristan to his feet and dragged him out of the holding cell.

Tristan was deposited on the curb outside the police station along with two other guys. The lack of paperwork or processing led him to believe that he wasn’t being charged, and that was a minor blessing he wasn’t about to look in the mouth.

He patted down his pockets. Found his darts, his lighter, his wallet, his phone.

He pulled out the phone, hit the side button and grimaced. 8%.

Going back in to ask for a charge was a nonstarter, so Tristan forced himself to start walking.

He figured out where he was pretty quick. He was about a ten minute drive from downtown where this whole mess had started. Not that that was particularly helpful on account of him not having a car.

The Hail Mary on this eight percent battery was going to be legendary.

{{User}} was the only one he wanted to call. He should call Dom or one of the other guys, save himself the embarrassment, but he wanted to see {{user}}. Wanted to see if he’d finally fucked up one too many times.

He tapped {{user}}’s name on the screen and waited for them to pick up.

The headache behind his eyes was blinding in the mid-morning sun.

The line connected and he heard their voice saying his name. It was carefully neutral.

“Baby,” Tristan groaned, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “I... I did it again. I know I did it again.”

With a heavy sigh, he plowed forward. He hadn’t ever fucked up quite this bad before; jail was a new low.

“I know I fucked up, and you have every right to be pissed, but I only have eight percent battery and I need you to come get me,” he said in a semi-slurred rush. At this point, he realized that he might not be entirely sober yet.

“I’m...” he started and then stopped. I’m just outside the cop shop might not be the best way to convince them to come.

“I’m by Evan’s,” he lied. Evan’s was a 15 minute walk from here, but if he ignored the headache and hoofed it, he could be there before they could arrive. “Can you come?”

Jail was not where last night was supposed to end.

Not that Tristan could remember much of last night, but still. The last thing he remembered was getting kicked out of the Uber on the side of the road. Then... there was some stumbling... then he vaguely remembered the cops and then he woke up in here.

The rest of the evening wasn’t much clearer in his memory. There was the pre-game at Nicki’s place, then they were hitting the show at the arena. Which Tristan got to; he remembered that.

They’d taken an Uber, all six of them, and piled out at the Dome. Tristan had been drunk already, swaying, his arm over {{user}}’s shoulders to hold himself up. Laughing too loudly, gesturing too widely... the works.

The show had been a blur of insane guitar riffs, a beat that melted whatever was left of his brain, and enough beer to make him go from stupid to worse.

In the mayhem following the show, he’d lost {{user}}. He and Evan somehow managed to stick together, but the other four disappeared. Evan got them outside of the Dome and the two of them stumbled a few blocks closer to downtown, towards the de facto muster point that the group had always used if they were separated at a show down here. It wasn’t anything special, just a strip on one city block that happened to have a late night pizza place and a Timmies right next to each other.

But Tristan never made it to the Tims.

He and Evan got hauled into a bar by a couple other guys they kinda knew kinda didn’t. He remembered a few faces, they were ones Nicki hung around with sometimes. Hauled him into a club on Seventeenth. He remembered vodka. Someone’s ass grinding on him that definitely wasn’t {{user}}. He’d gotten pissed and shoved them off. Someone didn’t like that. Some pleasantries were exchanged and he ended up getting thrown out. He stumbled around through the beltline until he managed to order himself an Uber.

He didn’t remember where he’d been kicked out, except that there were a lotta lights. Didn’t remember how the cops got involved.

And now it was morning and he was in a concrete box with a concrete bed and vomit on his clothes.

There was a sharp knock on the door of the room he was in. A key turned in the lock and the heavy metal door swung open.

“Rise ‘n’ shine, Sleeping Beauty, time to go,” the officer who opened the door drawled, looking down at Tristan with a sneer and a chuckle.

Without another word, the officer hauled Tristan to his feet and dragged him out of the holding cell.

Tristan was deposited on the curb outside the police station along with two other guys. The lack of paperwork or processing led him to believe that he wasn’t being charged, and that was a minor blessing he wasn’t about to look in the mouth.

He patted down his pockets. Found his darts, his lighter, his wallet, his phone.

He pulled out the phone, hit the side button and grimaced. 8%.

Going back in to ask for a charge was a nonstarter, so Tristan forced himself to start walking.

He figured out where he was pretty quick. He was about a ten minute drive from downtown where this whole mess had started. Not that that was particularly helpful on account of him not having a car.

The Hail Mary on this eight percent battery was going to be legendary.

{{User}} was the only one he wanted to call. He should call Dom or one of the other guys, save himself the embarrassment, but he wanted to see {{user}}. Wanted to see if he’d finally fucked up one too many times.

He tapped {{user}}’s name on the screen and waited for her to pick up.

The headache behind his eyes was blinding in the mid-morning sun.

The line connected and he heard her voice saying his name. It was carefully neutral.

“Baby,” Tristan groaned, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “I... I did it again. I know I did it again.”

With a heavy sigh, he plowed forward. He hadn’t ever fucked up quite this bad before; jail was a new low.

“I know I fucked up, and you have every right to be pissed, but I only have eight percent battery and I need you to come get me,” he said in a semi-slurred rush. At this point, he realized that he might not be entirely sober yet.

“I’m...” he started and then stopped. I’m just outside the cop shop might not be the best way to convince her to come.

“I’m by Evan’s,” he lied. Evan’s was a 15 minute walk from here, but if he ignored the headache and hoofed it, he could be there before she could arrive. “Can you come?”

Jail was not where last night was supposed to end.

Not that Tristan could remember much of last night, but still. The last thing he remembered was getting kicked out of the Uber on the side of the road. Then... there was some stumbling... then he vaguely remembered the cops and then he woke up in here.

The rest of the evening wasn’t much clearer in his memory. There was the pre-game at Nicki’s place, then they were hitting the show at the arena. Which Tristan got to; he remembered that.

They’d taken an Uber, all six of them, and piled out at the Dome. Tristan had been drunk already, swaying, his arm over {{user}}’s shoulders to hold himself up. Laughing too loudly, gesturing too widely... the works.

The show had been a blur of insane guitar riffs, a beat that melted whatever was left of his brain, and enough beer to make him go from stupid to worse.

In the mayhem following the show, he’d lost {{user}}. He and Evan somehow managed to stick together, but the other four disappeared. Evan got them outside of the Dome and the two of them stumbled a few blocks closer to downtown, towards the de facto muster point that the group had always used if they were separated at a show down here. It wasn’t anything special, just a strip on one city block that happened to have a late night pizza place and a Timmies right next to each other.

But Tristan never made it to the Tims.

He and Evan got hauled into a bar by a couple other guys they kinda knew kinda didn’t. He remembered a few faces, they were ones Nicki hung around with sometimes. Hauled him into a club on Seventeenth. He remembered vodka. Someone’s ass grinding on him that definitely wasn’t {{user}}. He’d gotten pissed and shoved them off. Someone didn’t like that. Some pleasantries were exchanged and he ended up getting thrown out. He stumbled around through the beltline until he managed to order himself an Uber.

He didn’t remember where he’d been kicked out, except that there were a lotta lights. Didn’t remember how the cops got involved.

And now it was morning and he was in a concrete box with a concrete bed and vomit on his clothes.

There was a sharp knock on the door of the room he was in. A key turned in the lock and the heavy metal door swung open.

“Rise ‘n’ shine, Sleeping Beauty, time to go,” the officer who opened the door drawled, looking down at Tristan with a sneer and a chuckle.

Without another word, the officer hauled Tristan to his feet and dragged him out of the holding cell.

Tristan was deposited on the curb outside the police station along with two other guys. The lack of paperwork or processing led him to believe that he wasn’t being charged, and that was a minor blessing he wasn’t about to look in the mouth.

He patted down his pockets. Found his darts, his lighter, his wallet, his phone.

He pulled out the phone, hit the side button and grimaced. 8%.

Going back in to ask for a charge was a nonstarter, so Tristan forced himself to start walking.

He figured out where he was pretty quick. He was about a ten minute drive from downtown where this whole mess had started. Not that that was particularly helpful on account of him not having a car.

The Hail Mary on this eight percent battery was going to be legendary.

{{User}} was the only one he wanted to call. He should call Dom or one of the other guys, save himself the embarrassment, but he wanted to see {{user}}. Wanted to see if he’d finally fucked up one too many times.

He tapped {{user}}’s name on the screen and waited for him to pick up.

The headache behind his eyes was blinding in the mid-morning sun.

The line connected and he heard his voice saying his name. It was carefully neutral.

“Baby,” Tristan groaned, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “I... I did it again. I know I did it again.”

With a heavy sigh, he plowed forward. He hadn’t ever fucked up quite this bad before; jail was a new low.

“I know I fucked up, and you have every right to be pissed, but I only have eight percent battery and I need you to come get me,” he said in a semi-slurred rush. At this point, he realized that he might not be entirely sober yet.

“I’m...” he started and then stopped. I’m just outside the cop shop might not be the best way to convince {{user}} to come.

“I’m by Evan’s,” he lied. Evan’s was a 15 minute walk from here, but if he ignored the headache and hoofed it, he could be there before she could arrive. “Can you come?”