Page 10 of Wicked Sins

“Hush, baby girl. Just go to sleep.”

I slip away when he starts stroking my hair again, losing myself in his soothing touch.

Chapter Three

Candy

Something pulls my hair. Not a whole section, just a few strands at a time. Stings. The pain—more irritating than anything else—forces my eyes open.

Light burns my retinas.

Damn, nowthat’spain.

“Shit,” I mutter, immediately squeezing my lids closed again.

“Shit,” a young voice parrots back to me. Despite the pain, I lever open my eyelids again and blink a few times until I can focus on the face in front of me. “Emma?”

The girl leans back, gives me one of her goofy smiles, and snatches her hand away from my head. She’d been stroking my head, but with her sticky hands, it had been more torture than pleasure.

“Shit,” she says again, and then smiles.

“Don’t say that,” I manage, and then smack my lips to bring moisture back into my dry mouth. There’s a glass of water on my nightstand. When I drag the glass closer, it bumps into a pair of aspirin placed just so on the corner of the nightstand.

Who…?

I snatch the pills, toss them down my throat and sit up while I start chugging at the water. Emma backs up a few more steps, watches me with that strangely intense expression of hers, and then bolts from my room.

Weirdo.

I consider lying back down again and waiting for the aspirin to kick in before attempting to get up again, but then I happen to glance at the clock on the opposite wall. I blink a few times and then squint.

A second later, my eyes fly wide open.

“Shit!”

Why the hell didn’t anyone wake me up for school?

Emma did.

But was it on purpose? Does she even know what day it is?

I’m so damn late, I don’t even think there’s time to shower. I hoist my vest up as I scramble off my bed, already wondering how I’m going to power through this day with a head stuffed full of aching cotton wool.

As soon as the baggy vest I was sleeping in brushes against my nose, all thoughts disintegrate.

Istinkof booze.

I rip off my vest and turn it the right way out, staring in horror at the fabric. I don’t remember much about last night, but I’m sure I would have remembered tipping a whole glass of liqueur over myself. At least, that’s what it smells like.

But there’s nothing on my shirt. I look down at myself, and sudden coldness spills through me.

As if in a dream, I bring a finger to my lips, wet it, and bring it down to the skin between my breasts. It touches something sticky. When I taste it, it’s sweet.

But that’s all background noise. I’m much, much more concerned with the fact that I appear to have several bruises on my ribs and hips.

Well, now I know I’m one of the select few who shouldn’t be touching alcohol. Obviously, I can’t handle it. I don’t remember bumping into anything hard enough to bruise, but I also don’t remember dousing myself with enough cream liqueur to transform myself into a walking fire hazard.

Like mother, like daughter, right?

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