8. Lyla
Chapter eight
Lyla
If I kept my eyes closed, my body might think it was just tired. I was confident that I would hurl all over my brand-new, fluffy, white carpet if I got up. My head was pounding, and I was no newbie when it came to mending a horrendous hangover. I needed water, some ibuprofen, and an order of Campus Pollyeyes breadsticks. It had been an entire summer since I had the giant chicken and cheese stuffed breadsticks from the famous local establishment, and I couldn’t think of a better time to reunite with one of my favorite BG staples.
I didn’t remember returning home last night but was relieved to find my bed empty and the apartment quiet. I didn’t want to hear from Michelle or Keira about how I might not be hungover if I had controlled my drinking last night, and I didn’t want to usher out a stranger and have the morning-after conversation.
I rolled—literally rolled—out of bed and onto the floor. The cushion from the carpeting softened the blow, and I used my end table to pull myself up. I looked down at my shorts and T-shirt combo. At least last night’s version of me could get us down for bed.
It only took two steps for the rumbling in my stomach to start. I darted across the room to the bathroom, and after ten minutes of unattractive and unforgiving dry heaving, I decided I was okay to continue my recovery journey.
“Never . . . again,” I mumbled into the toilet bowl. My head was only inches away from where I peed last night. There was no lower point a human could sink to.
I stumbled into the hall and made my way to the living room. Empty bottles and cans from last night littered the counters. I gathered everything up and slid the contents into the trash can. If I caught any whiffs of last night’s concoctions, I’d start dry heaving again.
After a few sips of water and three ibuprofen, I leaned against the counter and nursed the rest of my drink. I did a double-take when I noticed the incredibly attractive guy staring at me from the couch. My hand flew to my chest, and I almost dropped my water bottle.
“Have you been here this whole time?” I exclaimed. I rubbed my throbbing temples and watched him survey the rest of the room.
He slowly lowered his phone. “Uhm. Yes?”
The wheels began to turn, and my stomach sank.
Did I bring this guy home last night, and now I’m an asshole because I just asked if he had been here THE WHOLE TIME?!
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Did we?” I gestured to the space between us.
Shame on me if I forgot this man. He was gorgeous. Shame on me for forgetting, but kudos to my drunken judgment for upholding my standards. Not enough credit was given to the behind-the-scenes effort.
He shot me an amused grin. “No, we didn’t. I just got here a few minutes ago. My roommate stayed the night here.”
I nodded, keeping the movements minimal to give the ibuprofen more time to kick in .
“I’m Deacon.”
“Lyla.” I raised my hand and dropped it back down to my side. “Which roommate was it? I can go in and wake them up.”
“Andre’s in the shower now. He shouldn’t be much longer.” Deacon moved from his seat on the couch and helped himself to the bar stool across from me. “Rough night?”
“Nah. I always look this good in the morning.” I drained the rest of my water and tossed the empty bottle in the trash.
Deacon laughed. It was the kind of laugh that drifted from your chest, and you kept it going because it made everything else feel good.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.
“I feel like I’ve seen you before. Did you live in the dorms last year?”
I shook my head. Deacon’s eyes were captivating. I usually favored blue or green eyes, but his were the perfect shade of light brown.
“My girl—I mean, ex-girlfriend lived in the dorms last year. I wasn’t sure if maybe I had run into you there.”
Deacon sighed and pulled out his phone again. His entire demeanor shifted, and I ignored any further prompting questions that popped into my head. I wasn’t in the mood for any heavy conversation. An awkward silence hung in the air, and I decided it was time for my recovery nap.
“Well!” I announced. “It was nice meeting you. Have a good Sunday.”
Have a good Sunday? For all that was holy, I was out of practice. It had been a dry summer, and I needed to get back out there pronto .
“Wait! I knew you looked familiar,” Deacon exclaimed, his smile returning to full force. He thrust his phone in my face. “You’re Stripper Pole Girl.” He said the name so confidently that he convinced me I should sign all my legal documents as “Stripper Pole Girl” moving forward.
I could’ve melted into the floor. I recognized the yellow dress and my drunken dance moves. However, I didn’t recognize how full and bare my backside looked moving up and down next to a stripper pole.
“What!” I screeched, putting emphasis on the T. I snatched Deacon’s phone and hit replay on the video. There was no denying that it was me putting on a performance to Usher for everyone in The Attic.
“Nooo,” I whined, and a low rumble crept out of my chest. I put my hand to my forehead. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”
Deacon backed away slowly in case I turned into a gremlin and attacked him.
“You found this on the internet ?” I asked as if the internet were some foreign space I didn’t understand. I sounded like No Style Kyle in his New Balance shoes.
“I mean, it’s Usher. It’s not all bad. A friend sent it to me on Instagram last night.” His eyes moved to my mouth, and he bit the inside of his cheek. It was clear there was more.
“And?” I prompted.
“And Snapchat.” He winced, running a hand through his hair. “I can say something positive if you promise not to take it the wrong way.”
I crossed my arms and cocked my head, letting him know it was okay to continue. Even in this highly problematic moment, I wanted to hear everything this guy had to say.
“You look good,” he admitted. “I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of. ”
I was intrigued by Deacon. We had met less than ten minutes ago, and even though my ass—as he clearly could see on his phone screen—had been plastered all over the internet the night before, he was still trying to be reassuring.
The sound of my ringtone drifted from my room. I handed Deacon back his phone and made a beeline for my own. When I saw my dad’s name on the screen, I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath before I answered.
It was a quick conversation. Aaron Brooks screamed at me, saying he received a video of his daughter dancing on the pole like a hooker from someone on InstaSnap. I didn’t bother correcting him. He probably got a message sent to his Instagram account since he had one for work, but that piece of information seemed irrelevant given the topic of conversation.
He yelled. I listened. This wasn’t necessarily a new response or routine. Dad only paid attention to items that brought negative attention to his brand, and everything I posted eventually made it to A. Brooks Financial Firm. Of course, none of my top-tier selfies or beach shots ever circulated.
“If you think you’re getting anything come graduation, you’re kidding yourself,” Dad seethed.
That sentence got my attention.
“Dad, it’s just one video! It’s not like I told someone to press record.”
“I don’t care to know any details, Lyla. I knew twenty-three was too young, and you’re clearly not trying to do anything serious with your life. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Just because it’s your senior year—”
“I’m working to get it taken down,” I lied. I needed him to stop talking so I could think. I did a quick rundown of the items that generally pissed Aaron Brooks off. Nothing I ever did made him happy, so I chose a few things that would make sense in the mini-story I was about to spin. “My boyfriend is working to get it taken down. Called Instagram and everything.”
I wasn’t even sure if someone could call Instagram, but who was I kidding? I was speaking to the man who thought there was an InstaSnap. He wouldn’t question that detail.
“Boyfriend?” His tone dropped a few notches. “What boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice taking on an obnoxiously high pitch. He would’ve heard I was lying if he knew me at all. “We’ve been dating for a few weeks. He’s currently searching for the asshat who recorded it in the first place. I’m sorry about the video, but it really looks worse than it is.”
“Your ass is on my phone screen, Lyla,” he said, taking another deep breath. “Let me know when it’s removed from InstaSnap, and then I can properly thank this new . . . boyfriend of yours when I come in for Thanksgiving. But if he isn’t worth my time, Lyla, don’t even bother. You have until graduation to convince me you have your shit together.”
My mouth went dry. I wasn’t sure who hung up first. My hand dropped to my hip, and I threw my phone on the bed. Yesterday, everything I wanted was only a graduation away. Today, I was nursing a hangover and needed more water so my head would stop spinning.
When I ventured out back into the kitchen, Deacon was still sitting at the counter.
“Everything okay?” he asked while my head was in the fridge.
I spun around and averted my eyes from his mouth. How could someone’s lips look that full and inviting by just existing ?
“My dad saw the video, and I told him my boyfriend is trying to have it taken down,” I said slowly. “He’s also trying to find the person who recorded it.”
“Your boyfriend sounds like a good guy if he’s trying to have it taken down.”
“Yeah”—my voice took the high-pitched tone from before—“except I made him up. So, really, as endearing as this boyfriend sounds, he doesn’t exist. And now my dad wants to meet my knight in shining armor when he comes for Thanksgiving.”
Deacon winced. “That sucks.”
I buried my face in my hands and groaned.
“Is there more?”
I heard the playfulness in his voice, and I smiled despite my misery. I was glad someone was getting enjoyment from this. Deacon leaned forward on his elbows, and his eyes met mine.
I pulled myself onto the counter and smirked. “I have to convince him that I should still get the money he promised me for graduation.”
“Damn. That part really sucks.”
It went against all of my instincts to provide more details of my personal life to a guy I just met. Guys were predictable and disappointing, and just because Deacon seemed genuine didn’t mean he was.
I decided it was best not to come onto him for Deacon's sake. For now, I’d just enjoy how his plain white T-shirt hugged his chest. He had to have some sort of cardio routine.
Charlie’s voice drifted from the hall, and I forced myself to stop mentally undressing the man in front of me. Charlie—and who I assumed was Andre—came into the living room. Andre smacked Deacon’s hand the way guys do, and Charlie rounded the counter to sit next to me .
“Is he Mr. September?” she asked, bumping my shoulder with hers. “He’s cute.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “He’s not September.”
Andre and Deacon exchanged a few laughs, and I was jealous of their carefree conversation. I was wrong before when my head was hovering over the toilet. That wasn’t the lowest point a human could get to. It was having their ass on the internet and their future in their prick-of-a-father’s pocket.