Page 82 of A Lucky Shot

Don’t think about how you wished you’d gone down on her that night to taste her everywhere, asshole.

He eased her away from him as gently as he could. He gathered her hands from around his neck and cradled them in his own, holding them against his chest. She’d suffered enough rejection tonight, but he tilted his head up, away from her perfect mouth, and planted his lips chastely on her forehead. “I could write sonnets about kissing you,” he said, stroking her cheek, “but you are in no shape for that right now.”

With any luck, horny drunk would be replaced with sleepy drunk.

“Sonnets are pretty,” she agreed. She retrieved a hand to poke a finger into his chest with faux ferocity. “Okay, Sexy Dimples, you need to write me a sonnet.”

There was a first time for everything. Josh swallowed his laugh. He’d take giggly drunk. “I hope for your sake that you don’t remember any of this tomorrow.” Then he’d be off the hook for writing sonnets, too.

Cass blinked down at her bare feet. “Where’d my boots go?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CASS

A railroad spike had lodged itself behind her eyes. Right through the middle of her skull to cleave her brain in two. Someone had replaced her insides with poison, each heartbeat sending corrosive blood to erode her thinky bits. A faint, rancid odour seeped into her nostrils, and she vaguely became aware that it was her breath causing the offence. And the noise. The silence was so loud she almost heard her will to live wither away.

There was only one explanation: she was dying.

Her darkened room tilted as she tried to open her eyes, and she decided that was a terrible idea.

I’m staying in bed for the rest of my life.

No, she wasn’t.

Cass made it in time to disgorge the remaining contents of her stomach neatly into her toilet. She wiped her mouth and rested her forehead on the closed lid, the cold porcelain transferring a faint bit of relief to her pounding brain. Her whimpering breath echoed in the room, and she was glad that her pristine bathroom was her one exception to her aversion to cleaning.

She was never drinking again.

Cass groped in the dark for her toothpaste and knocked a few bottles to the floor in a clatter. She winced at the noise scraping her ears and gave a silent prayer of thanks that nothing broke. The bright mint chased the rancour from her nose, and she willed herself not to gag as she scrubbed the demons from her mouth. Her shower gaped at her, but the thought of standing any longer sent a fresh wave of nausea through her guts.

Okay, stomach, she thought, hands propped up on her sink. Let’s go back to bed until the room stops spinning.

She shuffled across the short hall and eased herself back into her bed, where a glass of water and two ibuprofen sat on her nightstand.

“How many drinks did you have?”

If she wasn’t so wrecked, she would have yelped. Josh leaned against her dresser, arms crossed and dimples on full display.

Cass tried to think back, but the poison flooding her system hijacked any possibility of calculating the total. Besides, the exact number didn’t matter. The answer was too many. Way too many. She winced. “I don’t know. Three?”

“That was you on three drinks?”

“Shh, you’re breathing too loud,” she moaned. “I just had my glass of wine, then drank the rest of what’s-his-face’s drink, then a girl beside me said I looked like I needed a shot of whiskey.”

It was the whiskey’s fault. Or maybe the gin she’d ordered after. Her dad always said gin was the drink for when you wanted to be tough. Or maybe it was the Merlot she’d ordered after the gin because it turned out she didn’t want to be tough, after all. She swallowed a heave. “Maybe it was more than three drinks.”

Cass palmed the pills and took a delicate sip of water. Oh, ambrosia. She took another sip and leaned back against her headboard.If she lived, she was having a serious discussion with Past Cassie about her choices.

“If you get plastered like that on the reg, you should really have Gatorade on hand.”

“This,” she said between sips, “is not a regular practice of mine.”

Josh pushed off the dresser and took the empty glass from her hands, returning a moment later with the glass refilled. He sat on the edge of her bed, leaning back against the footboard with one hand behind his head. The gentle dip sent a recoil through her belly, and she groaned.

“Thank you, that’s really … wait.” The night had blurred together after the bartender had set the fifth drink in front of her. She remembered texting Josh, sometime between the whiskey and before the gin. She also remembered saying she wanted to be alone. Drunk Cass wasn’t usually Frisky Cass, but sometimes, when she was with someone she was attracted to, her lax filters would let more embarrassments through as her drink count increased. And try as she might to keep her attraction for Josh under control, he was a pro at ruffling the edges she’d tried so hard to pin down.

Now he was sitting on her bed. In the dark. At an unknown time of day or night. With those dimples out in full force, like he knew a secret he wouldn’t tell her quite yet.

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