“Kansas?” Peter repeated, alarm warring with disbelief. “Oh, that’s fucking great. I step out of an elevator, I nearly get run over, and somehow I’m in bloody, fucking Kansas. And no, Vegas is a bit of a bloody shithole, to be honest.”
He needed to call Charley; if he had somehow ended up three states away overnight in a drunken haze, then the teen was sure to be worried. Peter looked down at the phone still in his hand. It didn’t seem to have been damaged when he fell, but the screen was lit with a “NO SERVICE AVAILABLE” message. He growled and stowed the mobile away in his pocket. Then the rest of what Troy had said caught up with him. “Hang on, did you say 2012?” he asked, twisting around to stare at the younger man.
Peter was missing quite a bit more time than he had thought - a whole year had gone by. Or maybe he really had gotten run over, gotten a head injury and lost his memory or something… except nothing hurt but his hands where the sidewalk had torn the skin. And he was still wearing the same thigh length blazer, the same dark shirt, the same skintight leather pants Charley had teased him about just that afternoon. And the way he had suddenly found himself standing in the street, like the world had shifted seamlessly around him…
He shook his head. “2012... No, that can’t be right…” he scoffed. Except he was sober… and barely a minute ago he had been in the Hard Rock, at night, and now he was outside with the sun beating down on him and a rather clueless looking young kid watching him with obvious discomfort. And it was 2012.
He heaved a sigh, leveling his gaze at Troy. “I need a fucking drink.”