3
I WAS SCARED that if I opened my mouth, I would hurl again … from the alcohol and the embarrassment.
The world was spinning, but his face—the straight nose and chiseled jawbone—that was still and clear, almost as if the universe wanted this moment imprinted on my brain forever.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice gruff.
No. I was so very far from okay (though still very much in four-letter-word territory).
“I’m fine.” I pushed off the wall where I’d been bracing myself and tottered out into the street.
“Where are you going?”
“Away.” Just … away.
The night air was cool, and it felt exquisite against my sweat-dotted skin.
“Hold on,” he said, trailing behind me.
“Seriously?”
He should be running right now. That’s what you do when someone makes a supreme asshat out of themselves. You look the other way and keep walking.
He stopped before me, his face cast in shadows from the street lamps. “I’m not letting you walk around by yourself.”
Oh. He was one of those.
Couldn’t he take a hint? My head was spinning, and my mouth tasted like something too disgusting for me to name. I never thought there would be a moment where I wanted a hot guy to leave me alone, but it appeared there was a first time for everything.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Bad things happen to people who are fine every day.”
So, Dark and Dangerous was really just a Prince Charming with a buzz cut. That shouldn’t have been appealing. Normally, I couldn’t stand that kind of thing. But against all odds, I could feel myself softening, the edges of my will blurring.
I blamed the stubble. I never could resist the scruffy look.
“Listen, I get the whole protective thing. It’s what guys like you do. And don’t get me wrong, it’s kinda hot. But I don’t need a babysitter. So put the knight-in-shining-armor fantasies on hold for the night.”
I thought I sounded firm and very adult (but then again, I was drunk). The roll of his eyes told me that he wasn’t taking me very seriously.
“And I already told you that I don’t care what you think you need.”
“So, what? You’re going to follow me whether I want you to or not?”
His lips pulled together, and I could see the mirth written in the curve of his mouth. Such a tempting mouth.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Someone needs to get you home.”
Not even a measly one percent of me managed to believe that “get you home” meant anything other than dropping the pitiful drunk girl off at her hostel to wallow in her nausea and misery.
We couldn’t have that now, could we?
I sidestepped him. “I’m not going home yet. So run along and find yourself another damsel.”
He smiled, but there was an edge to it. He ran a hand over his short hair, and I made myself walk away.
He called after me, “You’re a real piece of work.”
That made me smile. I stopped and spun, walking backward. I stretched out my hands and yelled, the sound echoing through the street, “You bet I am.”
If there was a museum filled with people who were a “piece of work,” I’d be the main fucking exhibit. I would have said as much, but the whole walking backward thing wasn’t the best idea in my current state. I stumbled, just barely managing to catch myself, but my stomach felt like it had plopped down to the ground anyway. I didn’t look at him, knowing I probably looked twice as foolish as I felt, which was a lot.
I took a steadying breath, afraid I might be sick again.
The funny thing about alcohol … when it makes you feel good, you feel amazing. But when it makes you feel bad, you’ve never felt worse. Not just the nausea, but all of it. I might be a piece of work, but I knew myself well enough to know that if I went back to my dingy hostel—mattress springs pricking at my back, the cacophony of snoring roommates, the threadbare blankets—it was a recipe for hitting rock bottom.
Most hostels were devised so that you met other people, and yet they were the loneliest damn places in the world. Everything there is temporary—the residents, the relationships, the hot water. I felt like a flower trying to plant roots into concrete.
Nope. I needed to walk off the alcohol before I went home if I wanted to avoid a breakdown of child-star proportions. And this time, I should walk facing the right direction.
After only a few steps, my tagalong was right at my side. I scowled and tried to walk faster, but my stilettos weren’t having that. And I didn’t trust myself not to face-plant into the cobblestone with the kind of night I was having.