26. Tequila is the New Holy Water
Selene
It’s pouring again.
Lightning tears through the sky right as my fingers fly furiously across my Mac’s keyboard.
My heroine is facing an inner dilemma. She feels... lost. Completely adrift. She doesn't have the faintest idea how to stop thinking about her phantom cowboy, and worse yet, she can't explain why she obsessively keeps doing it.
Sure... they have fantastic sex. And he's gorgeous. And he does things for her that make her feel... important. Things like deciding to risk his own non-life to protect her. Things like making sure she eats a hot meal from her favorite tavern. Making her smile before falling asleep.
Three sharp knocks on the wooden door abruptly interrupt my flow.
I jump, blinking. I pull my eyes away from the screen and only just now realize I've been writing non-stop, in some sort of trance, for hours.
I move the cursor to the bottom left and check the word count.
5,000.
Panic sets in. Five thousand words. In a single session.
There can only be one explanation, and it's tragic: more than likely, over half of my rambling is pure trash. It needs to be deleted. Thrown out and rewritten from scratch.
Three more knocks on the door, louder.
I let out a heavy sigh that scrapes my throat, snap the laptop shut, get up from the window seat, and go to open it.
"Ready to party?!"
Carolina's exuberant face pops up the second I turn the handle. She is an explosion of energy that brutally contrasts with my existential-crisis vibe.
"What?" I croak, confused.
Instead of answering right away, Carolina runs her hands over her hips, tugging the bodice of her skimpy denim dress a little lower. Then, with a clear, crystalline laugh, she twirls in the hallway, elegantly bending one leg to show off a pair of cowgirl boots trimmed with dark fringe.
"Susan, Indya, and I are throwing an underground party downstairs," she announces, her eyes shining with pure euphoria.
It's my own personal circle of hell.
"Well... I'll pass," I declare, nodding toward the closed laptop on the window seat behind me. "Working."
"No, no, no, missy." Carolina points a finger at me with a smile that leaves no room for debate.
"Absolutely not happening. Put on a nice dress, freshen up, and... get your cowboy."
She shoots me a shameless wink and, completely ignoring my murderous glare, points over my shoulder. Toward the closed bathroom door.
From inside, comes the rush of the shower.
A sound that, for at least fifteen minutes now, I've been desperately, pathetically trying to tune out.
The water beats against the tiles, and under that spray is a new-cowboy I am desperately trying not to picture lathering himself up.
I am fighting with all my might to forget how his large hands slide over his own skin.
I am desperately trying not to remember the feeling of his naked body pressed against mine.
Carolina takes a step back into the hallway and gives me a conspiring smile.
"Starts in exactly an hour," she dictates. "If you aren't downstairs, I'm coming to drag you down myself."
"Sounds like the title of a new B-list horror movie," I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.
She giggles, a vibrant sound that fades down the hall, and I already see her marching off to pound frantically on someone else's door.
I shake my head, closing the door behind me. I roll my eyes, but my sigh of relief dies in my throat.
Because, in that exact moment, the bathroom door handle clicks down.
The door opens, releasing a thick cloud of hot steam that smells like men's body wash and cedar.
And Ron Willers steps out.
My brain completely short-circuits.
He is gorgeously, scandalously wet. He has only a white towel wrapped precariously low around his hips.
His hair falls messy and wet across his forehead.
Tiny droplets bead on his broad shoulders and chiseled chest, sliding inexorably downward, tracing the grooves of his abs until they disappear beneath the terry cloth hem.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck, drying himself off absentmindedly, and when he looks up, he finds me there, petrified in the middle of the room.
His blue eyes light up with that familiar, dangerous spark.
"What's wrong?"
My gaze lingers, for a second too long, on the V-line of his hips. I swallow hard. The lump in my throat is the size of a billiard ball. The heat radiating from his half-naked body seems to fill every cubic inch of the room.
I part my lips, desperately seeking oxygen.
"Well..." I murmur, my voice trembling just a bit. "Maybe a tequila-fueled party isn't such a bad idea after all."
"The trick is all in calibrating the specific gravity of the liquors."
Susan's shrill voice carries over the chatter in the living room.
Leaning over the makeshift bar, she slowly pours a thick drop of Irish cream into a shot glass filled with tequila and grenadine.
Upon hitting the alcohol, the cream curdles, creating a murky, whitish swirl floating suspended in the glass.
It actually looks like a creepy little skull trapped in the liquid. Or a brain.
"See? Haunted Shots for a haunted house," she finishes, winking at Cade, who watches her with a dopey grin.
I grab one and knock it back in one shot along with the other girls.
The liquid burns down my throat, leaving a trail of fire that radiates all the way to my stomach.
I take a slow breath, forcing myself with everything I have not to feel self-conscious in this little dark dress that hugs my hips and exposes me way more than I'm used to.
And, above all, I force myself not to cast a single, fleeting glance toward the opposite corner of the room, where I know for a fact a particularly attractive person has his eyes glued to me.
"Another round!" Carolina yells, slamming her palm on the table. Her cheeks are flushed with euphoria. "This is a blast!"
Indya slams her empty shot glass onto the wood and nods vigorously, her eyes shining, while Emma, beside her, lets a small, adorable grimace of disgust slip as she stares at the freshly poured shot.
I lean toward her, brushing my arm against hers. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want to," I whisper.
At the exact same time, Susan's shrill, triumphant voice partially drowns me out: "I told you guys they were amazing!"
But Emma heard me. Her big, wide eyes look up and meet mine. Her face breaks into a timid but surprisingly determined smile.
"I know," she murmurs, picking the shot glass up between her fingers. "But... I want to try new things."
I try to smile back, touched and almost endeared by that silent show of courage.
We do another round. Meanwhile, on the other side of the large living room, Levi has perched himself on the arm of a chair. He found an old acoustic guitar and is strumming a country tune.
The burn of the tequila spreads through my chest, intoxicating my senses, but I realize with icy clarity that all the alcohol in the world wouldn't be enough to make me forget Ron's voice.
His low, raspy voice, fractured by lust.
Now, be a good girl and strip for me, Selly.
The memories ambush me, vivid and ruthless.
You're a fucking wet dream, Selene Dusk.
His breath against my bare breast.
You're a vision.
His gaze full of devotion.
You are beautiful.
I grab another shot, hurriedly knocking it back. Nothing. The words keep echoing, sending a dangerous, desperate heat throbbing between my thighs.
I forcefully try to redirect my attention to the party, which is now reaching full-blown delirium.
Carolina is the center of attention: she's dancing, laughing, and shamelessly grinding against the twins, who are matching her rhythm and holding her close.
In a more secluded corner, Susan and Emerson seem so drunk they've forgotten they're incompatible; they're brushing against each other, heads close, flirting in a mix of whispers and giggles.
I step away from the noise, skirting around a couch to seek refuge near the imposing dark silhouette of the grand piano. I need air.
But the air is instantly stolen from my lungs.
A wall of solid heat materializes behind my back. I smell the scent of cedar and leather fill my lungs a split second before his lips almost brush the shell of my ear.
"What's your favorite color?"
I flinch violently, my heart skipping a beat and stumbling.
"W-what?" I stammer, turning halfway around.
Ron is a breath away from me. He rests one hand lazily on the piano lid, trapping me in his space.
"It's my question of the day," he whispers.
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a shiver run down my spine. "Yeah, but... why are you asking me that?"
He tilts his head just a fraction. His gaze burns right through me, sliding down my dress before tracking back up. "Because I need a simple question to distract me, Selene. To keep me from thinking about how much I want to bend you over this piano and take you right here, right now."
Please do it.
My muscles tremble.
"Blue," I whisper, my voice so low I have to force it out. "Yours?"
Ron slowly licks his lower lip. The gesture lights a fire straight in my stomach.
I want to close the distance. I want to abandon myself against that broad, solid chest and stop thinking, but all of this—his undivided attention, the sweetness mixed with this devouring lust—only keeps confusing me, dismantling every fucking certainty I have.
"I think I have a few," he answers. His gaze lingers on my dark dress, trailing down the curve of my hip. "I like black. It's so dark and powerful."
He lifts a hand, with torturous slowness, and his hot, rough fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it carefully behind my ear. His knuckle grazes my cheek. "I also like white. It's a perfect contrast."
Then, his eyes drop. They lock onto my mouth, like he wants to devour my lips right then and there.
"I like red," he murmurs, his breathing growing shallow. "So intense."
Slowly, his gaze drags back up, locking onto my eyes, holding me prisoner in a grip I have absolutely no intention of escaping. "And brown. Deep."
I swallow. And the sound seems deafening.
"Why are you doing this?" The question slips past my lips before my cynical brain can censor it.