Page 29 of I Blame the Club

It takes a lot to leave a mark.

The words rattle around my alcohol infused brain as the Uber driver’s terrible taste in music fills the silence of the car. It smells faintly of cheese but I guess it’s better than the concrete ground of a gas station.

Shit, was that only twelve hours ago?

The tequila shots helped numb the aches and pains of my body but I can feel them start to creep back in. I'm nowhere close to sober but suddenly I feel a lot less drunk than I was thirty minutes ago.

Re: When I tried to kiss Taber’s all-star lacrosse legend.

I groan as the memory resurfaces, the blurry image of a pool table and Mo’s smiling face weakening my resolve to the point of making a move. Because I was the one who made the move, wasn’t I?

I frown, my thoughts flying past me like the corn fields outside. The last twelve hours dug up so many questions that now I want answers.

Glancing at the man occupying the passenger seat, I let his rigid features soften my thoughts until they start to drift off. My eyes grow heavy as I take in the white-knuckled state of Mo’s hands gripping the armrest.

See? My homosexual tendencies must have turned him off to the point of being ill. Speaking of being sick, he really does look like he’s about to…

“Pull over. Now.”

The driver jerks the wheel and I’m thrown against the door as the car comes to a shuddering stop. Mo jerks out of the passenger seat and flings himself out the door. Rubbing my screaming shoulder, a flush of embarrassment hits my cheeks when the sound of retching echoes from the fields outside.

I’ve really done it now.

Cursing myself and the driver’s terrible shift work, I yank my own door open and hobble out into the night. It takes my eyes afew moments to adjust to the darkness, but it doesn’t take long to spot the man spewing chunks all over the ground.

Breathing through my mouth as I draw closer, I awkwardly bend down to pat his heaving back.

“That’s it. Get it all out.”

Mo smacks my hand away, “You are not helping.”

So physical touch is not his love language. Noted.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, I do my best to look useful, “Anything I can do to help?”

“You’ve done enough.”

My shoulders hunch as another round of heaving takes over Mo’s body. I wait until the convulsions stop before bringing up the elephant puking in the room.

“I’m sorry, Maurice. I crossed a line tonight and that’s unacceptable.” Mo spits on the ground while I shuffle nervously, “I will never make another move on you again. I promise.”

Using his hand to wipe his mouth, Mo sits back on his knees and looks at me. His hair is completely disheveled and his mouth glistens with the leftovers of his vomiting session. For the first time since I’ve met Maurice O’Brien, he doesn’t look perfect.

He looks human.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mo stares at me, seeming unbothered by the fact his stomach contents are on the ground next to us.

I grimace, motioning towards the mess he just made, “I was just saying sorry for going gay on you and making you do… this.”

Mo brushes off his knees and climbs to his feet, “You drink too much, Montez. I didn’t throw up because you hit on me. I threw up because I get motion sick.”

My brain screeches to a halt.

“You get car sick?”

He nods and I burst out laughing. Shoulders shaking, I hunch over to catch my breath as Mo glares in my direction.

“It hasn’t happened in a long time.”

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