Page 47 of Yours Truly

Ivy’s not gripping my cock.

Hell, I don’t even think she’s here.

But I am at work.

Wait, no, this isn’t work.

Fuck. I was dreaming, and dreaming deep.

Groggily blinking, I try my hardest not to move as I mentally work out my surroundings.

I’m… on the floor, wherever I am. That much is obvious in the way my hips ache and my lower back throbs. Sleeping on the fucking floor is not a thirty-eight-year-old man’s game.

My head swims, but I force myself to focus as I slowly roll onto my back and blink up at the ceiling. At some point, I believe women were here. Or… I was with women.

Cheap perfume clogs my nostrils as I reach up to push my hair from my face. Turning my head, I take in the shiny floor, mostly covered in blankets.

I’m home.

In my new home, next door to Deuce.

But I can’t remember getting here, and I sure as shit don’t remember what happened before I got here, either. Solving my evening feels tiresome, so I close my eyes, trying desperately to get back to the dream. The dream where Ivy held my cock in her hands, where she was just about to control me.

But I can’t find it. The dream is gone. With my eyes pulled shut, darkness engulfing me, in the distance, I hear the faint dripping of a sink not fully shut off.

The dream is gone forever, and I’m on the floor, sore and aching, hungover and… oh yeah, mad.

I got mad last night. If mad were a synonym for jealous rage, then yeah, I got mad last night. I groan as I bring my hands down my face, scrubbing away the lethargy. I need to get up and get a fucking shower and a cup of coffee.

Of everything I can’t remember, what I can remember is being a prick to Ivy.

Sickness rushes through me, and I move to my elbows and knees like a sick animal scrambling to my feet. I make it to the sink in time to empty the limited contents in my stomach, blinking madly from shock.

I didn’t drink that much. I mean, for me.

That sounds bad.

When I think of what I did, how I behaved last night… I’m so ashamed that a second wave of nausea hits. But I grab a bottle from the pack and twist the top off, drinking it faster than I can get sick. With the crumpled bottle rolling in the sink, I grip the edge of the counter and summon a deep, steadying breath, trying desperately to calm the sickness sweeping over me.

Ivy went out to dinner with the guy who needed extra numbing cream.

I could’ve watched her like a total creep through the fucking shop window. Seriously. Goode’s is right across the street. And yeah, that would’ve been weird but it would’ve been a lot better than what I did.

A memory of a dark-haired girl flashes through my mind. “Your friend can’t come,” her voice knocks into me like a boulder, and I lean over the sink to prevent the dizziness from taking me out.

I called Tre, I remember that now. And he called me back right after Ivy took off. Couldn’t find his keys? Was that what he said? I don’t know. But it was too late. I’d already slammed the fifth and invited the girls to party.

“Jesus Christ,” I bellow, shaking my head over the sink as a third round of sickness hits.

After cleaning out the sink, the most painful of all memories come thundering back.

Ivy’s face. The sadness buried in her eyes as she watched me command another woman to her knees as if it all meant nothing. Right in front of her.

I’ve never told Ivy that I have an insanely fucked-up crush on her. I barely admitted it to myself until recently. How could she possibly know that everything I did last night was because of how jealous she made me? She’ll think it’s just the asshole being the asshole, yet again.

I picked the girl with dark hair so I could at least pretend it was Ivy. I grip the top of my jeans, trying hard to remember if anything actually happened.

Squeezing my eyes shut, echoes of laughter tumble through my brain, and the taste of Jack burns the back of my nose. No—nothing happened.

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