Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Luna
Morning light streams through the window, but opening my eyes doesn’t feel like a viable option. My body shakes, my head throbs, and I try to remember if I was hit by a semi-truck while having the flu and a migraine.
I’m dying. Why am I dying?
The events of last night crash down on me with each throb of my head.
Shots.
More shots.
Making out with Kevin.
Hooking up with Kevin.
Kevin motorboating my labia.
Me pretending to orgasm just to get him to stop.
I cringe, which only makes the throbbing that much worse. It takes effort, but I peel my eyes open to find Kevin passed out in bed with me.
My head’s now spinning like a tilt-a-whirl, my stomach churning violently. Snapping my eyes shut only makes the feeling worse, and so I force them back open.
Fumbling for my phone on the nightstand, I manage to grab it. “Oh, no.” I whisper when I see the time. In my drunken state, I forgot to set an alarm. There’s no way I’ll have time to catch the train.
C lick.
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Oh no is right, piccola .”
Fuuuuuuck. Please tell me this is a dream.
I close my eyes and open them before turning around.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in this little punk’s head,” Vince menaces, his gun pointed at a passed out Kevin.
“Kevin’s dad is a state senator,” I croak, my voice raw from a combination of partying and lack of sleep. “If his son goes missing, it’s gonna be a big deal.” I don’t try to tug on Vince’s heartstrings—I’m not sure Vince has a heart.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he barks at me, and I sigh a breath of relief when he places the gun in his waistband.
I scramble out of bed, still wearing my dress from last night, minus my thong—which Vince spots crumpled on the floor. My cheeks heat as I scoop down to pick it up, staggering when I stand.
Uh-oh. I still might be a little bit drunk.
Grabbing my bag, I try to appear as sober as possible while Vince bores holes through me. Making it to the bathroom, I close and lock the door, plopping down on the toilet. Nothing comes out, but I’ve never drank this much before; maybe that’s normal?
I stumble my way to the sink, washing my hands and face before patting dry with a fancy hand towel. Taking off my dress that reeks of stale beer and cigarettes, I put on clean underwear, a hoodie, and a skirt, slipping my bare feet into sneakers. Worried my time’s almost up, I grab my toothbrush and give my teeth and tongue a quick brush; the minty taste in my mouth nearly causes me to vomit, but I hold it down by sheer willpower.
Glancing at myself in the mirror, I cringe. I look like death warmed over with my sunken eyes and greenish tint to my face, but there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it now.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I glance at Kevin to make sure Vince didn’t kill him. “Lover boy’s fine,” Vince says, reading my mind. “Let’s go.”
I follow him down the stairs and out the back door, hissing as I throw my forearm over my eyes to block the glaring sun.
Vince silently holds open the passenger door for me, but I ignore him, opening the back door. He slams it closed. “What the hell, Vince? I want to take a nap in the backseat; wake me up when we get there.”
“I am not concerned with what you want,” he says in a bored tone. “Get in.”
Feeling too shitty to argue, I climb into the passenger seat, and he slams the door, the sound reverberating in my throbbing head as I buckle up.
Vince slides behind the wheel, peeling out of the driveway. I groan, keeping my eyes open to ward off the head spinning, but now I’m watching us take hairpin curves on two wheels. “Slow down,” I beg.
He doesn’t respond, stepping on the accelerator. I focus on my breathing, trying everything in my power not to puke.
We approach a gas station, my dry tongue practically stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Stop. I need a water.”
Vince ignores me.
We reach the Expressway, and I comfort myself with knowing it’s a straight stretch of road, but he passes the entrance ramp.
“You missed the turn.”
“I didn’t miss anything. We’re taking the backroads. ”
“Why? We’re late. The Expressway would be faster,” I point out.
He answers by reaching behind him in the backseat, shoving a trash bag at me.
We barrel down a windy two-lane road as I clutch the armrest, and it dawns on me he’s doing this on purpose. I take shallow breaths, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making me puke.
“You want to get into a battle of wills with me, Luna? Fine, but you should know the odds are always stacked in my favor,” Vince promises.
He takes a curb hard as tires squeal, and my willpower is no match for my riotous stomach. I grab the bag just in time as green bile sprays out of my nose and mouth.
“There it is. How’s that night of partying working out for you now?” he taunts.
“I hate you,” I tell him between bouts of violent wrenching.