Frustrated, I close my laptop and set it on top of my dresser, swaying a little when I stand. I look around, suddenly annoyed that I don’t even have a desk in here. I’m so unprepared to start classes, it’s not even funny. But I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I just want to loosen up a little. I’ve had exactly enough alcohol to lower my inhibitions, but not so much I’m not aware of what I’m doing. Before the last couple of sips of alcohol, I had been convinced that all I needed for a proper party was in my room with my laptop and the vodka. Now though, my curiosity has been piqued. I’ve seen how mobsters party; now I want to see how bikers party. I give the dogs one quick look and find that they’re curled up together beside my bed. It’s crazy to think I was once scared of them.
A crash sounds outside my bedroom door and then loud screams followed by a chorus of laughter. Before I can think better of it, I swing the door open and peer down the hallway. A suffocating strain is put on my chest at the sight before me. Ryan is pressed up against the other side of my bedroom wall. His head is tilted back against the wood paneling, his eyes closed. A woman, curvy with jet black hair, drapes herself over him. Her lips are attached to his neck, her pelvis rubs against his, and her hands travel up his abs. Words fly through my head at such high speed they threaten to fly out of my mouth.
Whore.
Bitch.
Skank.
Something primal strikes me. I have to grip the doorframe to keep myself in place. It’s stupid, this jealousy. Wanting Ryan when I’ve barely seen him for two months. Wanting him after he was such a bastard. There’s just always been something about the things I can’t have. I want them more than anything.
“Princess!” Duke’s deep voice sounding behind me makes me jump. Ryan shifts his head, staring me down with angry, bloodshot eyes. A quick look at Duke, and I see he’s leaning up against the wall with a grin on his face. The sickly sweet scent of pot wafts off of him. His normally rigid posture is slack and his eyes are unfocused. In his left hand is a bottle of whiskey, and in his right is a lit cigarette that’s nearly burned right down to the filter.
With my eyes back on Ryan, I back up until I’m next to Duke. Taking the bottle of whiskey from his hand, I bring it to my lips and suck in as much of the vile stuff as I can without breaking eye contact with Ryan. Lowering the bottle, I lick my lips. His body vibrates in irritation, his jaw ticking as he fights to keep himself still. Duke fumbles behind me, throwing a heavy arm over my shoulders.
“Again,” Ryan says huskily, giving the woman on him a gentle push. Oh, he wants to do this again. She pauses for a moment then continues her ministrations on his neck, her right hand reaching down to cup his dick through his jeans. His lips part. I’ve seen enough, but I can’t help myself. I bring the bottle to my lips and suck down twice as much as the last time, never letting my eyes leave his.
“Again.” And just like last time, I take another draw from the bottle. Duke watches us, his eyes slowly moving between Ryan and me.
“Something going on here?” he asks. Ryan’s eyes cut to Duke and then narrow when they fall on me. I don’t know what his problem is, but he’s pushing me in ways I can’t handle. I shake my head and turn to Duke. My belly is a flutter with a mass of nerves. I think I’m either going to be sick or pass out, perhaps both. My head is swishy, and my knees feel a little weak. Perhaps I imbibed a little more in the comfort of my room than I realized. I can’t chicken out, though. I want to prove that I can handle it here, and that means not running away to my room every time something happens that’s even remotely uncomfortable.
“I want to have fun,” I say. Duke tightens his grip around my neck and gives Ryan the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen.
“Princess wants to have fun,” he says, leading me toward the kitchen, past Ryan and that stupid bitch who still hasn’t let go of his neck. With every step that brings me closer to Ryan, my heart rate speeds up little by little. Brushing past them, a calloused finger reaches out, wrapping itself around my pinky. His touch sends waves of heat and bolts of anger through my entire body. I don’t want him touching me, but my body craves it. The more distance I put between us, the farther our arms must stretch to keep the contact. And we do for as long as possible. A quick look back, and I find Ryan’s arm reaching out, his index finger slipping from its grip on my pinky. We lose contact, and suddenly I’m not nearly drunk enough for this shit. Turning my attention toward the kitchen, I bring the bottle of whiskey to my lips, intent on making everything so blurry I won’t be able to remember what Ryan’s touch feels like.