Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I dive for her at the same time she lurches forward, so my shirt catches most of her first lot of vomit.
The toilet bowl handles the rest.
“I—” Another stream of liquidity vomit cuts her off.
“We’ll talk once you’ve sobered up.” I pull her hair back from her face before opening the drawer under the vanity and finding an elastic hair tie. My stomach is rock hard—on the inside. Nothing makes me queasy, but I’d rather sleep on vomit-free sheets.
“Why aren’t you mad?” Henley asks after expelling half of the alcohol she’d consumed before going out to search for more. “Beau would have been horrified.”
The churns of her stomach when I aid her to her feet are so loud they hurt me.
Needing to keep the focus off the massacre occurring inside her, I ask, “Who’s Beau?”
“He’s my ex.” Her feet more drag than stomp along the tiles when we move for the door, so I return her to my arms to make the journey easier. “He was an asshole.” I deserve her jab when she murmurs, “I seem to have a thing for assholes.” My knuckles are already bruised, but they’re primed for a second round when she quietly adds, “He’s the reason I’m a lightweight. The last time I drank of my own will, he chipped my tooth.”
“I’m not exactly sure you can call a whole bottle of vodka a lightweight drinker’s companion.” I place her onto the bed before pretending our conversation is casual and not an interrogation for information. “Is Beau from the South like you?” Her lips purse in confusion, so I add, “Does he have an accent like yours?”
Her pfft sends spit flying in the air. “I don’t have an accent.” Her throat works through a hard swallow when her eyes drop to her gym pants. “But I do have vomit on my pants.”
I face my eyes to the wall when she commences pulling them off, but within seconds, I’m left with no choice but to gawk. Her gym pants are stuck halfway down her thighs, and no amount of grunting and groaning will remove them.
“If you’re wearing butt-hungry panties, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.”
Henley’s smile does stupid things to my insides. It makes my heart flutter faster and my stomach not feel so twisted up in knots. “I’m not. I don’t own any G-strings.”
As I move closer to the bed to offer her assistance, I say, “Did Chelsea not offer you extra sets?”
She stills before locking her eyes with mine. I’m already struggling to keep a rational head, so you can imagine how hard it becomes when her teeth graze her bottom lip before she confesses, “I accepted her offer because I wanted to make you jealous.”
“You succeeded.”
My honesty awards me the same from her. “And angry.”
As I yank on her skintight pants, I ask, “You wanted to make me angry?”
Henley shakes her head, then pulls a face like she regrets her decision. “I made you angry.” Giving up on her campaign to free herself from her vomit-stained pants, she flops onto the bed with a sigh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I had my butt hanging out for the world to see even with this ugly thing on it.”
She flips over like she’s dying to be taken from behind, before highlighting a scar I hadn’t noticed before. It is faint but long and jagged.
“Did Beau do that?”
After taking a moment to assess if the edginess in my tone is jealousy or fury, she shakes her head. “But I don’t want to talk about him and his weird eyes.” A second after she’s freed from her pants, she crawls up my bed with her floral printed-backside swinging high in the air, slips under the comforter, then buries her head into my pillow. “I’m tired.”
With her eyes already closed, I place the dedicated vomit bucket at her side of the bed, then tiptoe to the door.
I almost make it outside before the faintest plea stops me. “Stay with me.”
“I—”
“Please.” Just the plead in her voice won’t see me issuing another denial, much less what she says next. “I’m scared.”
“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep, but then I have to check on Lucy.”
Henley nods before scooting over to the half of the bed Caroline always slept on. As I toe off my boots, I scrub at my beard. This is a bad idea. I know it is. I just can’t help myself. The last time I raced to find someone, it didn’t end with her sleeping in my bed.
She died.
Left.
I never had the chance to make things right.
“Is it my breath?” Henley asks, mistaking my forlorn look. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” She cups her mouth and breathes into her hand. A second after her nose screws up, she slips out of bed and makes a stumbling dash to the bathroom. “I’ll brush them. There are a lot of nasties in vomit that could hurt my teeth if I don’t wash them off. Considering I hate the dentist, I should lessen the chance of a visit.”