Page 11 of Claiming What Is Mine

Chapter Six

Meredith

The light.It’s…so bright. I roll over in my bed, positioning my face as far from the glow coming from the window as possible. My head aches like I drank too much at the reception, but I don’t remember drinking. Through bleary eyes, I look around my childhood room for a distraction from the hurricane of not-good brewing in my belly. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads eight, but the way I feel has me wishing for the black of night. My eyes recognize the shelf of cheerleading trophies, standing proudly amid posters of my favorite bands from high school. Images of Brooks and Dunn, Clint Black, and Garth Brooks contradict those of No Doubt, Pearl Jam, and GreenDay. Clearly,I had no idea what I liked at seventeen. All of them stand in contrast to the Pepto-pink painted walls. It might be great to lie here reminiscing about those days if it wasn’t for the feeling I might throw up at any moment.

Um, Meredith? Why is there a person-sized lump under the covers next to you in bed?I try to convince myself it’s something innocent, like a bunch of pillows, or stuffed animals, or something. But when the lump shifts I know better, even through the fog of a hangover. I strain to put the pieces of last night back together.

Wedding.

Ruckus.

Reception.

“Gabe.”

Oh shit.

I cover my mouth. I didn’t mean to say his name out loud. Maybe he didn’t hear me. He was a wreck last night. He’s probably still out of it.

“Morning, Doll.” He yawns as his arms stretch over his head, thudding against the wall.

“Shhh. My folks will hear you.” If I wasn’t busy being completely serious, I’d be mortified that those words came out of my mouth—at my age. Whatever happened last night was a huge mistake and now I need him to leave. I mean, I feel like death as it is, I can’t begin to imagine the shit-show that would unfold if Gabe bumped into my parents on the walk of shame out of the house.

Between the headache, upset tummy, and lack of memory, last night is fuzzy, to say the least. I can only surmise that, thanks to a little liquid lubrication no doubt, coming here seemed like a good idea at the time. My parents, along with everyone else in a twenty-mile radius, were at the reception. Which meant there was no way Gabe and I would find any privacy there. It also meant no one was here. I guess the math was simple enough. But—and I cannot emphasize this enough—I did not, I repeat, did not intend on sleeping with him. In my parents’ house. And certainly not in my childhood bed.

“Sorry babe. Damn, I feel like I’ve been run through the ringer. How’s the eye looking this morning? Any better?”

Gabe lifts his head for me to inspect. Half his face is swollen, and he looks absolutely pathetic. I almost don’t want him to get up, grab his pants, and get the hell out of here.

Almost.

“Um. You definitely have a mark.” Sitting next to me in my bed, shirtless, it’s easy to see how he earned his reputation. As a teenager, he was always in great shape. I imagine it was inevitable, with daily chores on the ranch and the work it took to be a football god. But now—at our age? No beer belly? No spare tire encircling his mid-section? He’s not even skinny-fat, like Jeff. This man has the kind of body any woman would be happy to spend time exploring…until he got bored, or they started talking about the future, anyway. For a moment, I question if he really has to go.

What am I thinking? Of course, he has to go.

Daddy didn’t care for Gabe when I was seventeen. And Gabe was never Jim Still’s biggest fan, either. But since I’ve been home, any time the Wildes come up in conversation—Chet’s wedding, their ranch, whatever—he and my brother James have made a special point of highlighting what apiece of work Gabe has proven himself to be.

“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.” Gabe’s chuckle brings me back to the present.

“Uh, I did. We all did. He’s fine. It was you that should have seen him, maybe then you could have gotten out of the way.” I playfully elbow him in the ribs. “Now come on. You need to get your stuff and get out of here before someone catches us.”

Gabe lets out another yawn, then presses his hand over his eye and groans in discomfort. “Two things, Doll. One, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

“And the second?” I whisper.

Gabe draws his brows together. “Okay, I guess we can mark the first thing as true. I have to say, that’s going to make the second thing a little awkward.”

“Why? What is it?” If he doesn't quit stalling, I'm going to yank him out of bed myself.

“Well, seeing as I was way past under-the-influence last night. And, uh…well, I couldn’t see to drive even if I hadn’t been…you’re kinda my ride.”

Shit shit shit.

He’s right. It’s hazy, but I’m beginning to remember bits and pieces. There’s a vague image of him asking if there was someplace quiet we could go to talk. I wasn’t drunk yet, and, well what can I say? As teenagers we spent so many hours in the loft of the barn, sitting on hay bales, drinking whatever we could sneak, dreaming and planning our future. Back then it was the two of us, against the world.

Log that under stupid crap kids do.

I guess once I was back in the relative safety of home, I let my guard down, and then, at some point, picked up that damned bottle of his.

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