Page 46 of I Do With You

“Yeah, you seem like it,” she snaps sardonically, one brow arched as she looks me up and down.

She doesn’t get it, but I do. The truth is, I am happy. Happier and more alive than I’ve been in ... is it dramatic to say than I’veeverbeen? Maybe, but it’s the way I feel.

Some of it is me. I’m fixing myself, thinking through the past and seeing it in a new light, and listening to my heart about what I want in the future.

Some of it is Ben. He looks at me with awe in his eyes. Even when I’m sloppy drunk or a crying mess that wants to hide, he sees beauty—not on the surface, but inside me.

And yeah, some of this happy is probably the beer, I admit as I burp again and then giggle. “Burps are funny,” I slur. “Issa funny word too.Burrrrrrrrrrrp.Like it sounds like what it is, ya know?”

“Onomatopoeia,” Joy says straight-faced, which also makes me laugh because I think she’s making up funny words. She must be suuuper drunk—unlike me, who’s just a wee bit tipsy.

“Tip me over and pour me out,” I sing, doing the teapot dance, which earns me several strange looks.

“You ready to go home?” Ben asks me, his arm wrapped around my waist again to prop me up. The adrenaline dump of telling Brooklin off has made me reach my limit and then speed on past it. Exhaustion hits hard, and my muscles feel like goo.

Put a fork in me, I’m done.

Ben must anticipate my answer, because he offers our untouched food to the people sitting closest to us and throws a fifty-dollar bill on the table, which reminds me ...

“Yeah, but I’ve got a tip for you, Brooklin.” I hold a finger up, making sure I enunciate. “You’re a bitch,” I say, clear as a bell and loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Boom, mic drop!” Joy adds helpfully, and the whole place erupts in laughter. “That’s my sister,” she proudly tells each person we pass as Ben and Shep herd the two of us through the laughing crowd and out of the bar, into the chill of the summer night.

“You got that one and I’ll get this one?” Shep asks Ben, who nods. The two men shake hands, sealing a bond formed over beers, darts, and maybe even a little hockey.

Chapter 16

BEN

“Good morning, gorgeous,” I tell the snoring monster in my bed.

She’s on that razor’s edge between passed out and sleeping, her hair wild, arms and legs askew across the whole bed, and one foot dangling toward the floor.

When we got home last night, I had to carry her inside, help her change into sleep clothes—one of my Midnight Destruction shirts again—and tuck her in. I also did not sleep on top of the covers this time, but rather wrapped around her, keeping her close all night. I told myself it was so I could be sure she didn’t get sick in her sleep, but the truth is, I’d wanted to hold her.

Drunk Hope was horny as hell, though, and put me through the wringer, snuggling into me, wiggling her ass against my hard cock, which refused to be contained by my underwear, and whispering such delightful things as,Shhh, don’t tell Ben, but I want him to kiss my vajayjay,andWhat if I’m bad at sex because I’ve only done it with Roy?There was also an off-key rendition of “Let’s Get It On” in which Hope attempted to sing baritone while dancing horizontally.

In short, last night was great.

For me, at least. For Hope, I’m afraid she’ll be paying the price this morning despite the water and aspirin I got her to take after giving hermy Girl Scout pledge—yes,Girl Scout—that I was not roofie’ing her to “have my wicked way with her and then steal her kidney.”

“Wut? Why wake up?” she mutters as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. Getting one open, she peers at me. “If you say the wordboat, I’m gonna throw up,” she deadpans. Even hungover, she’s got jokes.

I laugh. “If you didn’t throw up last night, you probably won’t this morning.” Then I lift the tray I’m holding up into her line of sight. “Breakfast.”

That gets her moving, and she picks up her head, both eyes open now. “What is it?” When she sees the avocado toast with a fried egg on top, cup of coffee, and water bottle, she sighs. “Oh, that looks delicious.” She sits up in bed, arranging the blanket over her lap and then looking on in wonder as I set the tray over her legs. “Thank you.”

As I sit down on the bed beside her, she digs in, moaning about how good the simple breakfast is and doing an adorable food-happy dance. “Figured you could use it after last night.”

The fork freezes in midair, halfway to her mouth, and she groans as she remembers. “Hamburger Help-me, I was so drunk. Did I do anything embarrassing?”

“You don’t remember calling the waitress a bitch and humping my leg, begging me to kiss your vajayjay?” I ask, holding up the leg in question. It’s paler than the rest of me, a by-product of always wearing jeans and living a vampire’s schedule for the past few months of touring.

She blinks slowly once, twice, three times and then grins. “I said ‘embarrassing.’ That”—she points the thankfully empty fork at me—“was awesome. Except you didn’t kiss me.” She takes a bite, snapping her teeth on the fork in fake anger.

“You sober now?”

“Judging by the faint drum solo happening in my head,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose, “unfortunately, yes.”

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