Page 42 of We Can't Be Friends

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow either.”

“Fine, my bed.”

“We aren’t at your place.”

“I know.”

“You do?” I doubted he could tell his right from left then.

“I have a few working brain cells, Henry.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Cal stands, his right arm coming around mine as we moved slowly into my apartment.

His head fell into mine. He smelt of alcohol mixed with leather and mint. I took another inhale, relishing in the alluring appeal there is to it.

I walked us to my guest bedroom. Sitting him on the bed, I moved around the bed, clearing my laundry that needed to be put away—from three days ago.At least I folded it. . .

“Feet up here,” I told him, tapping the bed, then helped guide them onto the comforter. I untied his sneakers, slipping them off his feet and depositing them on the ground. “I need you to lie on your side. Can you do that, Pretty Boy?”

“If you ask nicely.” His eyes were closed, but he’s had this giant, hot smirk on his face. Pillowy lips I’ve thought about tinting with my lipstick. I swallowed. The corner of his mouth touched the dimple in his right cheek.

“Please,” I said in the sweetest tone I could muster.

“I’m going to enjoy it when you beg for my cock.”

“I don’t beg, Sullivan.”

“We’ll see about that, Henry. You’ll want to beg for me.”

Leaving the room, I quickly grabbed water and medicine. Back in the guest room, I sat a glass of water and three ibuprofen on the side table.

I brushed away the hair on his forehead.I’m checking his temperature. This isn’t because I want to touch him.

He’s hot.

The drink he took from the girl must have been spiked.

While I'm not okay that this is happening to him, I’m grateful it’s not her.

Cal has me. Who did she have?

I grabbed the bathroom trash can, setting it on the side of the bed in case he needed it.

Tucker moseyed into the room. “Go to bed, Tuck,” I whispered to him. “Cal’s going to be okay.”

He has to be okay.

Tucker leaves, circling before flopping onto his dog bed in the living room.

Cal fell asleep, his breathing light. Sneaking out of the room, I did my best not to wake him, knowing he needed to sleep this off.

My hand trembled when I slipped off the straps on my dress. The memory of Cal’s hand fixing my strap on the dance floor earlier steadied me. I changed into my pajamas: an oversized T-shirt that says ‘YOUR BOYFRIEND SUCKS’ (fitting), a pair of boy short underwear, and fuzzy socks.

I was washing my face when I heard a groan, and the smell of vomit filling my tiny apartment.

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