Page 25 of Strictly the Worst

“Good luck with that,” I say, finishing my cocktail.

Damn, I really am feeling drunk.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

TESSA

My head is banging. My mouth feels like it’s an arid desert, and my stomach isn’t feeling much better. I grab the smartwatch that’s charging next to my bed and check the time.

It’s three am. I groan. Mostly because I’m not going to get back to sleep without going to the bathroom.

And going to the bathroom means walking past Linc on the sofa bed.

This is why it’s so much better to be a man in the middle of the night. If he was in this situation he’d almost certainly walk out of the double doors at the far end of the bedroom and pee off the deck.

He’d probably make friends with the damn birds while he did it. For a minute, I picture him as a peeing, male Snow White, singing “With A Smile and A Song”.

Everything starts to spin as I roll over and plant my feet firmly on the floor. I’m too old for hangovers like this. I thought I’d gotten over drinking too much while still in college, but no, apparently I now have a thing for Bahama Mamas.

When I reach the door to the bedroom I hear a noise.

A groan.

It’s deep and low and it makes me freeze. Is that Linc? What’s he doing?

Oh god, he’s not…

He groans again. It’s louder this time. My face heats up and I’m completely torn between walking to the bathroom and running back to bed. I stand at the door for a minute, wondering how long that kind of thing takes him.

Does he take his time? He’s the kind of man who savors life. I don’t think he’d hurry anything. He’d wrap his hand around his big shaft – because let’s face it, I know he’d be big – and slowly and surely tug until he reached the edge.

Why am I thinking about Linc Salinger’s masturbation style?

And then the world twists again as he lets out a scream.

It’s like an ice cold bucket of water over my head. What the hell?

There’s whimpering coming from the other side of the door, and I know this isn’t him touching himself. He’s having a nightmare.

My heart is hammering against my chest as I pull at the door handle, softly enough not to make a noise. I thank the god of oiled hinges as it opens without a creak, then pad into the living area.

Linc is thrashing about on the bed. The sheet he pulled over himself earlier has worked its way down to his ankles, kind of binding them up so he can’t get loose. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. And he’s still groaning.

I pad over softly, trying to remember what we used to do with Zoe when she was little and had night terrors. All I can remember was that I wasn’t supposed to wake her.

“Please!”

My heart almost breaks from his plea. It’s so plaintiff it hits me right in the chest. I drop to my knees next to him. I touch his brow. It’s clammy. His whole body is shining with sweat.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

He whimpers as I stroke his hair. Then his hand reaches out toward me and I don’t know what to do.

So I take it. Squeeze it. And somehow that calms him.

“It’s just a bad dream,” I whisper, hoping that somehow my words are making it through to his unconsciousness. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

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