Page 85 of Wicked Sins

The glass door slips from my hand and crashes against the jamb.

She’s sitting on the floor by the bar stools. Her hair hangs down in a curtain, and it shifts like silk when her body tenses as if she’s keeping in a sneeze. One hand clutches the bottleneck of the Irish creme, the other is fisted in her lap.

The bottle is empty.

At first, I’m convinced she downed the whole thing, and I’m already working out the fastest route to the hospital.

Then I see the wet slick down the front of her throat, her chest, how her shirt clings to her. Some of it may have gotten into her mouth, but more ended up on her.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a little…” I don’t know what to say. “Just had an accident.”

“Accident,” she murmurs, and then nods gently. “A little accident.”

Her head nods, and this time, it doesn’t lift.

“Candy? Darling girl. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice light now, as if she’s about to drift to sleep. She’s even started to sway as if she’s about to topple over. “Doesn’t work,” she mumbles.

“Sure about that? Looks like you had more than enough to get pissed.” I ask as I sit back on my heels. “But if you want to make sure, there’s probably another bottle back there somewhere. Should I bring it?”

Perhaps she wants to believe that there’s someone in this fucked up world who won’t shun her for this. Who won’t think she’s sick and twisted and broken.

“I can still feel,” she says, and then shudders violently.

“Then it’s a good thing you stopped, isn’t it?”

Candy watches me behind a veil of dark hair, eyes the most intent I’ve ever seen.

“Candy, you have to stop drinking.”

It takes a few seconds, but she eventually looks up at me. “Can you help me?” she whispers.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Candy

Iwake up to darkness and a throbbing head.

“Ow.” I grimace and roll onto my side, blinking hard to distinguish shape from shadow. When my eyes finally do adjust to the lack of light, what I can make out is unfamiliar.

There’s a nightstand nearby. On it is a tall glass of water, a napkin, and two painkillers.

Slowly, reluctantly, memories trickle back.

I pause as my arm starts shaking.

I remember everything. The funeral, Wayne’s ultimatum, the wine, Truth or Dare…and that’s where things get super fuzzy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I bite the inside of my lip as I push with my hips, urging myself closer to the nightstand so I can turn on the lamp. I reach, but I’m not close enough. Tears threaten to obscure everything.

An arm slides over me, a warm body pressing into my back. I go rigid, my breath trapped in my throat. Fingers longer than mine attached to a broad hand reach, reach, reach.

Joah turns on the lamp, flooding the strange room in a warm glow. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, voice thick with sleep.

The pain doesn’t seem all that important anymore. The fact that I can remember, neither.

---