“You can’t trust yourself around me?”
She shakes her head pathetically, then leans her head on the cool window glass.
“No. I can’t let you break my heart. I don’t have much of it left.”
My gut clenches yet again, something that it seems to do a lot of when I’m around her. I ram the key in the ignition.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t be breaking your heart tonight. You can sleep it off in my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
She nods, her face planted firmly against the window and I know that she’s not long for the conscious world. And I’m right. By the time we reach my house a scant five minutes later, she has passed out in the seat.
I stare at her for a minute, at her shiny dark hair, her tight jeans, her full breasts, which I can just barely see through the opening of her jacket. Her lips puff out with each little breath that she exhales in her passed out state. She’s going to feel this tomorrow. If she hadn’t been so stupid, I’d feel sorry for her.
I scoop her out of the car and carry her to the house, trying to ignore the soft way she melts into my body, and the way her head leans against my shoulder. She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.
I set her on my bed, pull off her boots and cover her up. I drag my bathroom trashcan next to her, just in case, and then sit in a chair and watch her for a bit. I have no idea if she’s going to wake up and be sick or if she’s definitely passed out for the night.
She remains still and quiet, with a little snore erupting from her every once in a while. I can’t help but smile just a bit over that. I’m guessing she would be embarrassed to know that she’s snoring, even though it’s actually cute as hell.
I sigh.
I’m fucking tired and I could easily sleep right here in this chair, but I know that if she wakes up and finds me here, it might be startling, particularly in the dark. So I head downstairs and find that once again, I’m just not ready to sleep. I’m worked up now, from all of the shit at the bar and by the fact that Mila is in my bed at this very moment. Alone.
And I’m downstairs. Alone.
And my hand hurts.
Fucking A.
I grab a baggie of ice for my hand and a bottle of whiskey from my garage and make my way out to the beach behind my house. I drop onto a chair and stare up at the stars as I listen to the rhythmic crash of the waves. I take a gulp of the liquid fire. I feel the warmth all the way into my belly and I take another swig.
I fall asleep humming a song that I don’t know the words to or even where it came from. The last conscious thought I have is that the night is so very, very black.
Minutes, or days, or years pass before something wakes me. Time has run together.
“Pax,” the soft voice murmurs, intruding upon my sleep.
And for a minute, just a scant minute, it seems like it might be my mother. In the blur of sleep, the voice has the same soft timbre as hers. But it can’t be. Even in sleep, I know that. It’s only the wishful thinking that comes from that grayish, half-awake place. It isn’t my mother. I know that before I even open my eyes.
But I’m surprised, when I do, to find Mila standing in front of me.
She seems uncertain, but she’s so fucking beautiful in the morning sun. Radiant, actually. She doesn’t seem hung-over at all. Her dark hair is loose and flowing and the morning breeze carries her scent to me. I inhale it and stare at her.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask groggily. I squint into the light, then rub my forehead. As I do, I wince because my fucking hand hurts. And then I realize that I must have fallen asleep here. The night air made my throat scratchy, so I clear it, then clear it again. “Are you feeling alright?”
I glance down and find that my bottle of whiskey is beside me on the beach, its contents spilled onto the sand. I think. I certainly hope I hadn’t drunk the whole thing. If I did, I’m going to feel it later today, just like Mila.
Mila looks even more uncertain now.
“I… uh.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other nervously. I look at her and cock an eyebrow. “I feel fine. Mostly. My mouth is dry and I have a headache. I don’t, um. I don’t remember exactly what all happened last night. But I sort of remember that you punched Jared and brought me here. And I think you might have broken his hand.”
I eye her. “Yeah, that happened. Do you make a habit of getting trashed at the Bear’s Den and going home with assholes?”
It came out a little harsher than I meant for it to and Mila flinches.
“No,” she answers quickly. “In fact, I don’t usually drink much at all, unless it is wine at dinner. Maddy has been bugging me to go out with her and blow the cogs off and after yesterday, I just felt like I needed it.”
I stare at her with interest now, my lip twitching.
“I think you mean cobwebs. And what about yesterday? When you rejected me, you mean?”
Color floods her cheeks and she stares at the sand.