11. CHLOE
11
CHLOE
“Henry.”
I can hear Cal’s drawn-out call of my name.
“Henry,” he groans, his accent more husky than usual. Deep and sleepy and dreamy. And I know I’m not dreaming when he says it a third time.
“What?” I grumble. It’s too early this morning.
Last night, Callum and I left the club around one. I’m not sure what happened between the time we climbed into the car back to my place, but he went from coherent to not.
I carried him up my stairs. One of his arms slumped around me, mine around his waist. I know I’m strong, but I’m not 6’3” used to play rugby and kept my physique strong. I had to prop him up on the wall outside of my apartment, which he decided was terrible support, and proceeded to fall to the ground. The thud echoing in the hallway like thunder.
“ You have to get up ,” I whisper-yelled at him. Grinding my teeth, I tried to lift him. “You are too heavy for me to pick up.”
“I could pick you up in my sleep,” he mumbled in a flirtatious tone.
“Are you trying to flirt with me, Pretty Boy?”
“You never want to flirt with me any other time.”
I stifled a laugh, but a small, giddy smile broke free.
“Try again tomorrow, and maybe I’ll flirt back,” I played along, enjoying this side of him.
Callum is fun. He’s quiet and observant in a group setting, but when he does talk, typically, it’s well thought out. He always appears to be composed. Controlled. I’ve never seen him upset. I’ve never seen him out of line.
“Come on, stand up. We need to get you to bed.”
“Your bed.”
“Not happening.”
“It’s going to.”
“Not tonight.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow either.”
“Fine, my bed.”
“We aren’t at your place.”
“I know.”
“You do?” I doubted he could tell his right from left then.
“I have a few working brain cells, Henry.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Cal stands, his right arm coming around mine as we moved slowly into my apartment.
His head fell into mine. He smelt of alcohol mixed with leather and mint. I took another inhale, relishing in the alluring appeal there is to it.
I walked us to my guest bedroom. Sitting him on the bed, I moved around the bed, clearing my laundry that needed to be put away—from three days ago. At least I folded it . . .
“Feet up here,” I told him, tapping the bed, then helped guide them onto the comforter. I untied his sneakers, slipping them off his feet and depositing them on the ground. “I need you to lie on your side. Can you do that, Pretty Boy?”
“If you ask nicely.” His eyes were closed, but he’s had this giant, hot smirk on his face. Pillowy lips I’ve thought about tinting with my lipstick. I swallowed. The corner of his mouth touched the dimple in his right cheek.
“Please,” I said in the sweetest tone I could muster.
“I’m going to enjoy it when you beg for my cock.”
“I don’t beg, Sullivan. ”
“We’ll see about that, Henry. You’ll want to beg for me.”
Leaving the room, I quickly grabbed water and medicine. Back in the guest room, I sat a glass of water and three ibuprofen on the side table.
I brushed away the hair on his forehead. I’m checking his temperature. This isn’t because I want to touch him.
He’s hot.
The drink he took from the girl must have been spiked.
While I'm not okay that this is happening to him, I’m grateful it’s not her.
Cal has me. Who did she have?
I grabbed the bathroom trash can, setting it on the side of the bed in case he needed it.
Tucker moseyed into the room. “Go to bed, Tuck,” I whispered to him. “Cal’s going to be okay.”
He has to be okay.
Tucker leaves, circling before flopping onto his dog bed in the living room.
Cal fell asleep, his breathing light. Sneaking out of the room, I did my best not to wake him, knowing he needed to sleep this off.
My hand trembled when I slipped off the straps on my dress. The memory of Cal’s hand fixing my strap on the dance floor earlier steadied me. I changed into my pajamas: an oversized T-shirt that says ‘YOUR BOYFRIEND SUCKS’ (fitting), a pair of boy short underwear, and fuzzy socks.
I was washing my face when I heard a groan, and the smell of vomit filling my tiny apartment.
I tossed the towel on the counter and sprinted to him.
Cal missed the trash can. He missed the floor, too.
Somehow Cal managed to sit up and throw up all over the bed.
“I’m going to—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence before heaving again.
I held my breath, standing beside him. Rubbing his back, I tried to soothe him. “It’s okay, Callum. Get it out of your system. ”
Comforters are replaceable. Callum Sullivan isn’t.
He threw up again. Leaning into my touch, head twisting to look at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh. It’s okay.” Cal shook his head in disagreement. “Hey, I promise, it’s okay.” The back of my hand wiped the hair pressed to his forehead. “Do you think you can stand? We need to go to my bed.”
“Thought I wasn’t allowed to be in there.”
His joking was a wave of relief. “I’ll make an exception this one time.”
He gagged. “I smell. S-sh-shower.”
“Uh, yeah, Pretty Boy. There’s nothing pretty about your smell right now. Miraculously, you didn’t get any vomit on your clothes. I’ll clean you up.”
Cal used me as a crutch to stagger to the bathroom. His steps barely coordinated, and we stumbled a few times. Luckily only crashing into one pointed corner. I’ll have a bruise on my thigh tomorrow.
“Here we go.” I sat him on the toilet. Wetting a hand towel, I wiped down the back of his neck and mouth. “You can shower in the morning.”
“Don’t wanna see me naked, Henry?”
“Oh I do.” Our eyes leveled. Murky ocean blue staring back at me. Cal tried and failed to pull the hem of his orange shirt up. “Who dressed you?”
“I wanted to match you.”
“If you remember one thing from tonight, I don’t wear orange.”
“Because purple or blue are your color. Maybe silver.”
“You think?”
His pointer finger tapped my forehead. “I know.” Cal reached for his shirt again. “I’m burning up.”
Placing a hand over his, I helped him. Tugging the cotton up and over his broad shoulders, my knuckles skimmed the lines of his muscles .
“Better?” It took me a minute to reach his face. Dragging my attention up his torso.
“Can you fold my shirt?”
“Seriously?”
“I need it folded.” I nodded my head, laying the folded shirt on the bathroom counter before taking him to bed. “I owe you,” he whispered as I pulled the covers over him. Rolling to face me, I mirrored him as I climbed in on my side.
“Call us even. You stood up for me with Seth.”
“He didn’t deserve you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t deserve you.” He kept rambling, but his words were as clear as they could be. “You’ll realize it soon.” He swallowed. “Everyone does. You shouldn’t even fake date me, it’s a-a good thing you haven’t given me an answer yet.” Cal coughed and I thought he was going to be sick again. “I never live up to their expectations and then let them down. I try. . . I try so fucking hard, Chloe, but it’s never enough. Why isn’t it enough?”
“Callum.”
“I-I’ll go h-home.”
I shook my head no, but he couldn't see. His eyelids fluttered close. “You’re staying with me. I’ve got you. You don’t need to try with me.”
I lifted his head with a finger hooked under his chin. In the dim light the lamp on my bedside table casted over us, I spotted a tear falling down his cheek.
Cal is broken.
He’s broken like me.
My eyes started filling. My heart ached. I tried to blink away the tears, but a few snuck through.
“Chloe, stop licking my feet.” Cal’s voice brings me out of the memory of earlier this morning.
“I’m not licking your feet. That’s Tucker.”
“What is a Tucker? ”
Tucker answers Cal’s question with a bark.
“My dog.”
Tucker loves toes, has since he was ten weeks old and I brought him home. We’ve been companions for six years. He’s the longest and healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.
Despite this one flaw, he’s the best companion. I know they say dogs are a man’s best friend, but it’s true.
The only thing Tucker could be better at—okay, maybe more than one flaw—is waking me up in the morning. I’m a morning bird, but he’s a butt crack early morning dog. Tucker finds pure pleasure in getting me—or anyone else in my bed, I guess—up when he wants to go out by slipping his head under the covers and licking my toes.
“Tuck, come here.”
The comforter shifts as Tucker pulls his head out from underneath it. His nails sound clack like fingers on a keyboard as he walks over to my side of the bed.
I roll over and open my eyes. “Good morning, good boy.” I kiss his snout. He returns the kiss with a slobbery lick across my face. “It’s Sunday. Let me sleep in, and I’ll take you on an extra-long W-A-L-K today.”
Tucker also speaks human.
His tail wags happily, slapping against my bedside table. How that doesn’t hurt him is one of the greatest mysteries of my life. He jumps into the bed, stomping on my stomach before nuzzling himself between Callum and me. His head nestled into the curve of Cal’s neck.
“This is freaky,” I admit aloud.
“Huh?”
“Tucker likes you.”
“Okay?” Cal groans. I know as he starts to fully wake, he’s going to be reeling in whatever happened last night.
“He’s not a fan of sharing my bed with other people.”
Cal rolls over, looking over at me across Tucker’s golden fur .
I thought our walk from the coffee shop to Emerson’s was a fluke. Pup cup induced high, but maybe it wasn’t?
“He gets along with other dogs, loves Emerson, and my brother, but…” I pause, feeling all of sudden self-conscious about discussing my history with Callum. It’s not that I think he’ll judge me, but I guess—I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid of his reaction to knowing I’ve slept around. Saint and Chloe don’t exactly belong in the same sentence. “Probably has some asshole radar. I swear as soon as a guy steps across the threshold of my apartment, he does any of the following: growls, sits next to them and farts, or side-eyes them into oblivion.”
“Except me?”
“Except you.” Moving to sit up against my headboard, I glance down at Cal in my bed. My stomach cartwheels at the sight. He looks good. He’s oozing morning sex appeal—tanned chest, sculpted muscles, messy hair, but he also looks right wrapped in my floral sheets. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, not grand. My head properly feels like it was in a stampede.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“No.” He squeezes his eyes. “I, uh, did I say anything last night?”
“Not really.” Except that you are going to enjoy making me beg and then was the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen you.
“I threw up.” His blue eyes brighten, some of the haze lifting. “Your bed.” He shoots up. “Henry, I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new quilt.”
He’s looking around the bed we're in.
“Wasn’t this one.”
“Do I need to clean it up? Let me go clean it up.” He tries to get out of the bed. I lay my hand on his bicep.
“I already tossed it.”
“Thank you.” He groans. “That feels like the wrong words to say. Thanking you for tossing your own quilts and cleaning up after me. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? ”
There’s an urge to snap, to tell him I don’t need anyone to take care of me. But I refrain.
“You could say thank you for watching you cry. You’re an ugly crier, Pretty Boy,” I joke through my serious tone. There’s truth in the statement, however. Cal wasn’t a graceful crier, but I chopped it up to his condition.
“Yeah? But you still think I’m pretty.”
“No.”
“Wasn’t a question.”
Tucker jumps from the bed. Cal’s hand that was stroking his fur lands on my chest.
My nipple pebbles under the thin material of my worn cotton shirt. The friction sends a tingle straight between my legs.
Callum shifts his hand— accidentally, he’s doing it accidentally, Chloe —and his palm adds the perfect amount of pressure to my breast.
“Sullivan,” I choke out.
“Mm,” he says sleepily.
“You are touching my boob.”
“Do you want to touch mine?”
“No.”
He slips his hand off me, but I see the smirk on his face that he was enjoying learning how sensitive and receptive I am to his touch. He’s learned a lot about me recently, a friendship blossoming quickly between us.
An ease that doesn’t have me screaming inside or wanting to push him away. Instead, I want to pull him closer.