“That way,” he says, pointing toward what I’m praying is the bathroom. I turn on my heel and race my way there, nearly tripping over the lip between rooms before yanking open the bathroom door. I drop to my knees in front of the toilet and grip its edges to keep from falling face-first into the bowl. The entire room spins as I puke my freaking guts out. My hair gets pulled away from my face and a rough hand rubs my back. Shawn’s voice attempts to comfort me, but it doesn’t stop the tears from springing to my eyes as I heave over the toilet.
I’m puking in front of Shawn. After almost puking in his mouth. Nothing could make this night any worse.
No, that’s wrong—the only thing that could make it any worse is me fucking crying.
I lock down my emotions and finish throwing up all of my cocktails, resting my forearm on the seat of the toilet and dropping my forehead to my elbow—because I’m too wasted to stand, I’m too stubborn to lie down, and I’m too embarrassed to let Shawn hold me.
“Can you stand up?”
I try to say “no” but end up puking some more instead. My head is spinning faster and faster with every second that passes, and eventually I start dry-heaving into a toilet bowl that won’t stay still. My arms are noodles, tossing me from side to side while my entire stomach climbs its way into my throat.
“I’m going to carry you upstairs, okay?”
Someone who sounds kind of like me mumbles something unintelligible back. Then there’s Shawn’s scent against my cheek and his voice in my ear. I become vaguely aware that I’m floating. And then, it’s just dark.
In the morning, I can’t remember how I got into my bunk, and Shawn isn’t around for me to ask, not that I would if I could. I’m tucked under sheets that smell like him, wishing I was dead. Drinking too much is one thing. Drinking too much, throwing myself at Shawn, mauling him on the bus, and then puking my guts out in front of him?
I close my eyes and pretend it was all a bad dream, but the black hole that’s blossomed in my head screams otherwise. It sucks painfully at my brain, my eyeballs, my eardrums—like it needs to devour the entire contents of my skull before it can escape and suck the rest of the world into its hole as well.
My feet are heavy as I throw them over the edge of the bunk and plant them on the icy floor. I stare down at my star-print socks, imagining Shawn carrying me up here, taking my boots off, tucking me in . . . and shaking his head at what a complete mess I was—the so-called rock star who thought she could hang with rock stars.
I rub a hand over my face and fit my feet into my boots one at a time. Then I attempt to finger-comb my hair, give up, and swipe my fingers under my eyes instead to clean up my mascara. Each step down the stairs to the lower level of the bus feels like an ice pick to my frontal lobe, and I’m praying there’s some coffee I can make in the kitchenette—because if not, I’m going to lie on the floor and just die.
The smell of dark-roasted beans hits me as soon as I step off the last stair, but my brain is too hungover to process what that means. I follow the smell like a worn-down bloodhound, dragging my sorry ass toward it until I emerge in the kitchen and meet forest green eyes.
Because, apparently, humiliating myself last night wasn’t enough. Now I need to rise from the dead with my brain throbbing out of my ears, my hair looking like something straight out of a B-rated horror film, and my wrinkled dress still ten sizes too small.
“How are you feeling?” Shawn asks, like it’s not written all over my face. I plop down in a chair at the corner table and immediately curse myself for it when lightning bolts shoot into the backs of my eyes. I hiss a curse word and bury my face in the darkness of my elbow.
I have two options. I can be an adult, apologize for going all alien-sucker on his face, promise it won’t happen again. Or . . .
“What happened last night?” I groan into my arm when I hear him sit across from me and slide a cup of coffee in my direction.
When Shawn doesn’t answer, I lift my head enough to peek up at him, and he asks, “How much did you have to drink last night?”
His five o’clock shadow has turned a day old, making him look even sexier and more disheveled than he normally does. His navy blue band T-shirt is hanging loose across his collarbone, stretched by my frantic fingers the night before.
“I don’t know. Five? Six?” I sit up and prop my forehead on my fist for a moment just to get myself used to being in an upright position. “Too many.”
Shawn studies me while he sips his coffee. His eyes are bloodshot like I’m sure mine are, a sign I wasn’t the only one who overdid it last night.
“How much do you remember?”
Everything. I remember the way his fingers skated across my stomach on the dance floor, the way his hips moved with mine. And I remember the weight of those hips on the bus, the way they rocked between my thighs.
It’s the moment of truth, and I lie my ass off. “I don’t know,” I mutter. “Did . . . ” I give him my most confused look. “Shit. Did I kiss you? In Mayhem?”
Shawn stares at me while rubbing calloused fingertips over his eyebrow. “A little.”