Chapter 24
SWAYZE
So this is how I die?
Hungover as all hell, twisted into weird pretzel shapes at sunrise yoga.
Goat yoga. Did I mention that?
No? How remiss of me.
So, let’s recap.
I feel like I’ve been brought back from the dead, hit by a truck, and revived just in time to regret every decision I made last night. Which includes mainlining enough alcohol that I’m probably 100% ABV right now.
And what happens when I drink?
I get stupid.
Real fucking stupid.
Especially when it comes to keeping my hands off Mia and sticking to the rules.
Then this morning we jumped out of bed like it was on fire because Mia’s fucking brother decided to hammer on our door at five-fucking-thirty.
Yes, you read that right.
We went to sleep at two.
Choices were made.
Bad. Fucking. Choices.
Nick made them too, which is probably why he woke up choosing violence.
Christ, he’d lose his shit if he knew what Mia and I did last night. The door wouldn’t be the only thing he pounded to all hell today.
Dead man walking over here.
I’m about two seconds from losing it myself, if this little black goat doesn’t stop headbutting the back of my leg.
What the ever-loving fuck possessed the idiot to plan sunrise yoga the day after he kept us out all night drinking?
As if to hammer in the point, the little horny—horned, I mean horned—fucker rams the back of my leg again.
Of course the one goat who escaped the pen has to make its way over to me.
Go headbutt Pete, you little demon. A solid headbutt in the balls would do him some good.
The bastard looked smug as shit when he caught sight of the three of us—Nick included, after his violent outburst of a wakeup call—hiding behind sunglasses and silence this morning.
The devil tilts his head at me and bleats. As if to say fuck that, I’m here to torture you.
Should I pick it up and toss it back in the pen with the others?
How do you pick up a goat?
By the horns? By the waist? Do goats even have a waist?
Before I can figure out my next move, the yoga instructor comes out.
Now, I don’t mean to be sexist. I’m all for equality. But I kinda thought yoga was a woman’s thing.
Why is the yoga instructor a six-foot, long haired Greek gladiator?
Have you ever seen Couples Retreat? Mia made us sit through that for movie night once—terrible movie, do not recommend. Well, she loved it, but I digress—this dude makes that instructor look like an acne-ridden teen.
Mia’s spine straightens.
What the fuck?
Legit, she was slouched, scrolling her phone, seconds from falling asleep on her feet.
Now, she’s standing to attention like she’s had a pole shoved up her ass—not mine, unfortunately—perky, alert, ponytail bouncing like a shampoo ad.
Fuck this.
I’m not sober enough to deal with this bullshit today. If she wants this guy to bend her into positions, she can have at it. I don’t want any part of it.
Just as I’m about to exit stage left and beg Mia’s forgiveness later—if she doesn’t thank me for leaving her with Hercules—the furry fucker hits me again, bleating loudly, drawing the whole class’s attention right to me.
You little turd. I should curry your ass.
“Ahhhh, Philip, how nice of you to join us today. Making new friends, I see.”
The smarmy prick grins at me, palms together, bowing like Mr. Miyagi.
I hate him instantly. What’s he want me to do? Bow back like the Karate Kid? I wouldn’t mind karate chopping him and this goat, for the record, before waxing the hell off.
“Philip is a wild goat. He isn’t part of our herd, but he appears sometimes,” the instructor continues, totally oblivious to my foul mood. “He joins when he wants and disappears when he’s bored. We just let him roam. He's a free spirit, but don’t worry, he’s very friendly.”
Well, so is Lucas. Doesn’t mean I want him up my ass.
Hercules scans the rest of the class, and his eyes definitely linger for a second too long on Mia.
I don’t think so, my guy. I’m stuck here now. You don’t get to touch what’s mine.
Tossing a glare at the wild little prick staring at me with strangely evil-looking minus sign eyes, I mentally tell it to namastay away. Then, before the bigger prick gets any ideas, I walk up behind Mia, wrapping myself around her like a bad rash.
She stiffens as if I’m one too.
Fucking charming considering she practically begged to sit on my cock last night.
So this is how it’s gonna be again? One step forward, five steps back?
Granted, last night wasn’t a step forward, it was a whole ass sprint to the finish line, but I thought we were okay. Good, even. We laughed all the way back to the room. She slept coiled around me naked, for fuck’s sake.
Shit, does she regret it? Is this Halloween 2.0?
Mia mutters something that sounds a little like “not drunk enough” under her breath, but I don’t quite catch the entire thing, thanks to my minor meltdown.
“Sorry, what did you say, Angel?”
She shushes me, shaking her head.
So sooorrry for interrupting. I’ll leave you to the greasy thirst trap you so obviously want.
Whatever.
She definitely wanted me last night.
But this shit needs to stop. I gotta stop drinking around this woman since I obviously can’t trust myself. Not once did I check if she was sure she wouldn’t regret it in the morning. If I’d been sober, I would have, especially with our history.
Instead, not only did I fuck her, right there with her whole family around us, but I did it raw.
First time I’ve fucked anyone bare, and I was too drunk to really appreciate doing it with her.
My dream girl, remember?
You absolute fucking idiot.
Mia shifts in my arms, so I loosen my grip on her waist.
“You ok?” I whisper into her ear, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve seen the prick’s eyes linger on Mia twice more since I draped myself over her.
The absolute last thing I need is Yoga Hercules thinking there’s trouble in paradise.
If he tries anything I’ll make damn sure to give him trouble in paradise.
But then again, I can’t exactly blame him for looking at her.
Mia’s a fucking knockout. There are no visible signs of the hangover I know she currently has. Obviously because she’s some heavenly being, not a mere mortal like my dumb ass, who’s looking a bit green right now.
She’s wearing leopard print yoga pants and a cropped workout top that exposes the tanned skin of her midriff. It’s doing dangerous things to her tits—and my dick.
The dick I’m only just now realizing I forgot to trap in boxers this morning.
In my rush out the door, with Nick shouting at us like some army sergeant, I threw on my gray sweats and sneakers, thinking I’d be fine.
I’m not winning any mastermind awards today, let me tell you.
The last thing I should be doing is sporting low-hanging fruit with a horny, ornery goat around and Mia looking like a goddamned wet dream.
Rookie move.
I’ll be fighting the damn goat and my natural urges for the next hour.
Yoga’s supposed to bring you calm, right? Well, I’m anything but. I’d be more zen driving in rush hour traffic on Fifth Avenue than I am right this second.
“Now, class, before we get to the goat stuff—see what I did there? Good/goat? Haha—we must stretch.”
He flexes his arm muscles in our general direction before demonstrating a few arm and leg stretches. Real basic stuff. Is he even a real instructor?
Weaving his way through the mats, he physically corrects peoples’ forms with his hands. What happened to personal boundaries? I don’t want this guy touching my girl’s ass.
Or mine for that matter.
“Stretching is vital to any physical activity. We do not want you to injure yourself and not be able to keep your partner satisfied on vacation. Yessss?”
The fucker winks and slaps my back as he walks past, knocking me off balance mid-stretch.
He’s throwing down the gauntlet right at my feet. I’m sure of it. 100%.
If Hercules wants to throw down with the Wolff, I’ll fucking show him. I’m more than capable of keeping my girl satisfied.
Anytime, anywhere, anyhow.
“Wonderful. Now, if you’re all loose lipped and loose hipped, it’s time to get all hot and baaathered.” He laughs hard and slaps his thigh before heading to the front again.
Goats don’t baa, motherfucker. That’s sheep.
It takes a special kinda man to laugh at his own jokes.
A stupid one.
Have I mentioned I don’t like him yet?
“We’ll start with some easy solo stretches before moving to the couple poses. I’ll be releasing the goats now, don’t be alarmed. They don’t bite, just ignore them and continue. They’ll join in if they want.”
Reluctantly letting Mia go and walking back to my mat, I side-eye the little demon who’s been entertaining himself by chewing the edge of it for the last ten minutes, and it’s like he knows. He stops what he’s doing, his creepy eyes meeting mine in straight-up defiance.
Listen, my guy, let’s call a truce. I won’t threaten to curry you, if you play nice or, better yet, go annoy someone else.
“No.”
I’m definitely still drunk. I’m subliminally communicating with a goat, who I’m now convinced is talking back to me.
I know I’ve said it before, but this is definitely my slow descent into madness.
Not entirely unsurprising given the circumstances, though some would say it’s totally self-inflicted.
Heartless people.
I defy anyone who’s ever felt even a flicker for someone not to cave and do whatever is asked of them. You’d have to be dead inside.
Me? I’m a lot of things, but dead inside ain’t one of them.
Nauseous, red hot, and bothered, on the other hand—those are all present and accounted for.
Oh fuck me.
Especially watching Mia’s perfect round ass while she effortlessly moves into a downward facing dog.
This dog is facing the totally opposite direction.
Philip, the little shit, bleats at me, stomping a hoof on the mat.
Oh great. Now he’s turned into the yoga police.
Bending at my waist, I lower my hands down toward the mat, but this shit is uncomfortable. It’s not easy to fold myself into a fucking V with my dick not cooperating.
“You’re a little stiff. What’s your name, koumbare?”