Page 55 of Whiskey's Redemption

I want to go home. I want to click my heels, wish on a star, and hope against all hope that I could go back.

I’ve said that already, dammit.

Shit, I really want to go back to where I call home.

Looking over the full table, it all screams to me. Decidedly, I didn’t eat much this morning, and now, with at least a gallon of coffee coursing through me, I better stuff something in this gut of mine. For the past few weeks, my stomach has argued with almost everything, except crackers. Looking at the cucumber sweet salad, I pull a forkful to my mouth. It tastes scrumptious. Honestly, anything would taste five star with the extent of my measly meals lately. And as long as it doesn’t look for a repeat performance, then I’m good. Delving into it further, seeing that nothing feels to be coming back to haunt me, I tear into the mango salad, the wonton wrapped fried pickles, the lime and ginger coated crusty tofu, and the drink the waiter brought.

“Hungry?” Kano jests.

“When you throw up for three weeks straight, don’t eat anything other than crackers and finally feel like eating, then come tease me,” I huff, munching down on a warm chunk of tofu. It tastes like heaven.

Giggling, Kano turns to Miori. Whispering in her ear, both break out in further laughs and stares. At me.

“What?” I mouth around my meal.

Smirking devilishly, they say in unison, “Nothing.”

Swallowing the morsel and dabbing the corners of my mouth, I turn to the two of them. “Don’t leave me out of the joke you two. I still know where you hide your porno mags and dildos. Want me saying it loud enough for everyone to hear?”

Faking that I’m about to voice it, Miori pipes up.

“Fine. We think you…” She pauses for dramatics. I’m really starting to hate her habit.

Frustrated with the wait, I say, “Miori, say it.”

Opening her mouth first, though, Kano blurts out loudly, “Your pregnant!” Of course, with her half deaf, her voice carries a heck of a lot farther than she thinks. The room silences, and I feel like a two-year-old being tattled on, taking in all the odd stares.

Ignoring her idea, I get back to my food. “I’m always careful. I love sex as much as the next person, but I don’t strip down for anyone without a plastic-coated hammer.”

Except Jamieson.

Forking in another wonton pickle, cutting it in half and chewing it, I mentally count the dates. I flew to Japan that day...that was….that was…

Shit.

“Excuse me,” I say, rising from the table.

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