Chapter 19 #2
Hands slid down between my back and the wall, and then gripped my ass firmly and pulled me harder against his erection. He ground hard against me as we kissed. Sloppy. Messy. Frantic. Primal.
This was exactly what I’d come here for. This man was a forceful, greedy kisser, exactly what I wanted tonight.
Exactly what I thought I wanted.
There was nothing unattractive about this man, but did I actually want him? Did I actually want sex with anyone?
I…
No, I kind of didn’t.
And now that I was on that bullshit train of thought, I was suddenly raw in ways I didn’t need to be in a club. Apparently I wasn’t drunk enough. Except…
Ugh. No. Getting more drunk seemed like a bad idea. I didn’t even know why. I was just sure that more alcohol would only make things worse.
I can feel worse than this? How? That doesn’t seem possible.
The stranger bumping and grinding against me, getting so hot I wouldn’t have been surprised if he came in his tight pants, was suddenly unwelcome. He wanted to have sex with me. I’d wanted to have sex with him, but now even making out with him made my skin crawl. Getting naked? Getting fucked?
Oh, hell, no.
I didn’t even know why. Was it the alcohol coming back to haunt me? Too much too fast?
Shit, I had no idea.
I put my hands on the guy’s chest and nudged him back. He resisted a little, but then took a step and grinned expectantly.
Oh. Did he think…?
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, and I shook my head.
His expression suddenly darkened. “What the fuck?” His voice barely carried over the music.
“I can’t.”
“What?” He scoffed and cupped my dick, which was still hard, through my pants, making me gasp. “Feels like you can do just fine. And you don’t even need to be hard while I’m—”
“No.” I shook my head as I batted his hand away. “I—think the booze is making me sick.” Eh, close enough.
He arched an eyebrow. Then he rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You’re a little bitch.”
I blinked. “I—”
“Fucking cocktease,” he muttered, and he stalked back toward the dancefloor.
I stood there stupidly for a moment, wavering badly on my feet.
I almost slept with that guy?
I almost slept with that guy.
Holy shit, I should not be here.
I really did feel sick right then, but I didn’t think I was going to throw up or that it was the alcohol.
Not entirely, anyway. Slumping against the wall, I tried to will my heart to slow down from the sudden panic.
Somehow I was still teetering precariously on that knife’s edge where I was lucid enough to know I was drunk enough to do something I’d regret.
Somewhere in my liquor-soaked mind, I held on to a sliver of awareness that said I was too fucked up to get any more fucked up.
One more drink…
One more deep, alcohol-flavored kiss…
And I would absolutely do something I shouldn’t.
As raw and drunk as I was right then, that something was probably going to be “hook up with a stranger and start sobbing while he’s railing me.” Because in that moment, I couldn’t see myself getting through sex without breaking down. Or getting through anything.
I almost had sex with that guy.
If I’d had one more drink, I’d have done it.
God. What was wrong with me? What was I doing?
I needed to get away from here.
I stumbled my way back toward the lounge and somehow got through the crowd along the edge of the dancefloor. I made it to coat check, found my claim ticket in my back pocket, and took my jacket.
The sharp bite of the January wind brought me a couple of degrees closer to sober. I needed to get home, but… how?
I was too hammered to drive. No doubt about that. And my car wasn’t here anyway.
Uber? Lyft?
Oh, yeah, that was exactly what I needed—some driver to see me like this. They all had dashcams now, didn’t they? If someone uploaded the video of me drunk—especially drunk and crying, since that was a definite possibility—then I’d never survive the humiliation.
Okay, no Uber. No Lyft.
I leaned against the cold brick wall and struggled to focus my eyes as I thumbed through my contacts. There had to be someone I could text or call to come scrape up my stupid drunk ass.
Baddy? Eminem? Ziggy?
I could text Coach. The thought made me cringe with preemptive embarrassment, but he had always told us—just like our parents had as teenagers—that we could call him any time if we were too drunk to drive. He’d lost a friend in high school to a drunk driver; he took it very seriously.
But could I ever look him in the eye if I took him up on that offer? Probably not.
I kept scrolling.
Willy. Astala. Trews.
My heart jumped into my throat.
Peyton.
I stared at his contact.
Did I want him to see me like this? Absolutely the fuck not.
On the other hand, he had seen me like this. Of everyone on the Whiskey Rebels, Peyton was the only one who knew what a mess I was. The only one who’d seen me fall the hell apart. I wouldn’t be showing him any trainwreck he didn’t already know about.
I closed my eyes.
Did I have any other options? It was a safe bet that any shot I ever had with him was dead and gone, and had been since the night he’d collected me from the bar. He already knew how pathetic and messed up I was. So… what did I have left to lose?
Queasy with shame, I tapped his contact.
Any chance you can give me a lift home?