Page 101 of How to Be a Rockstar's Girlfriend

“It was only a few beers.”

I’m not an idiot. I know the difference between someone who’s had a few beers and someone who’s drunk off his ass. With my experience I could write a dissertation paper on the difference.

“If it was only a few beers, why are you lying on the floor?”

He staggers to his feet and stumbles toward me. He attempts to throw his arms around me but I step out of his reach. He sways to the side and I catch him before he falls.

“Come on. Let’s sit on the sofa.” I wrap an arm around his waist and help him to the sofa. Good thing I have lots of experience moving drunk people because he does not make it easy for me. Coordination is not his friend right now.

“You had more than a few beers,” I accuse as I stand above him.

“What’s the big deal? It was only a bit of comfort.”

I know better than to ask but I do anyway. “Why did you need comfort?”

He scowls and reaches for the beer on the coffee table. I swipe it before he can grab it.

“Dad called. He wants more money.”

“And you decided to have a drink to make you feel better after you talked to him.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

I understand all too well.

“And how many beers did you have?”

He shrugs. The movement causes him to pitch to his side. He might not be slurring his words but he’s clearly drunk.

I eye the door. I can go home and come back tomorrow when he’s sober. But I’m not a chicken. And tomorrow the situation will be the same.

I sit on the coffee table and place a hand on his thigh.

“You have a problem, guitar man.”

“Yeah, my dad’s an asshole.”

He’s not wrong but I’m not discussing his dad now. “I meant your unhealthy attitude with alcohol.”

“I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not your mom. I had a few beers. What’s the big deal?”

I inhale a deep breath and try again. “You had more than a few beers and you promised me you wouldn’t drink.”

“I didn’t promise to never drink again.”

“You promised not to drink while we’re dating.”

His nose wrinkles. “The whole time we’re dating?”

This is a waste of time. I know better than to try and reason with a drunk. Reasoning with a drunk person is more difficult than convincing a kid chocolate’s bad for them. Either way. It’s a complete and utter waste of time.

“Yes, the whole time.”

I stand. I’m wasting my time here. Gibson isn’t going to listen to me now. I gather the beers on the table and march to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t answer as I open each can one by one and pour the contents down the drain.

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