Page 27 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

I press my palms against my eyelids, as if I could physically push the memories away. It had been the best sex of my life — passionate, intense, explosive. The kind that ruins you for anyone else.

With Cade Connolly. Byron's best friend. The arrogant, cheating asshole I've spent the last year despising.

What the fuck was I thinking?

The phone buzzes again, more insistent now, demanding attention. I reach under my pillow with trembling fingers, dreading what I might find.

The screen illuminates with notifications — seventeen text messages and nine missed calls. My stomach drops as I read the first preview.

From Byron:What the fuck!

The next:Saylor.

Then:Say.

Saylor, call me back.

Saylor.

Fear trickles down my spine, cold and persistent. I switch to my call log, and my worst suspicions are confirmed. Two outgoing calls to Byron at 2:13 AM and 2:17 AM, lasting three minutes and six minutes respectively.

I don't remember making those calls. I don't remember what I said. But judging by his texts, it wasn't "hello" and "goodnight."

My finger hovers over his name, the decision to call back is physically painful. But prolonging this will only make it worse. With a deep breath that does nothing to calm my racing heart, I press his contact and raise the phone to my ear.

He answers on the second ring. "Saylor." My name in his voice sends arrows of pain through my skull, his tone a mixture of anger and hurt that makes my insides twist with guilt.

"Byron," I manage, my voice a raspy shadow of itself. "Morning."

"Morning? That's all you have to say?" His words are clipped, tight with restrained emotion. "After last night? After what you told me?"

The room tilts slightly. "What…what did I say?"

"Are you serious right now?" His voice rises, making me wince. "You don't remember?"

"I was drunk," I whisper, as if that excuses anything. "I don't remember calling you, and I don't know what I said."

"Unbelievable." The word explodes from him like a bullet. "Do you even know what you did last night? Saylor, you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you hooked up with someone."

The words hit me with physical force. My body reacts before my mind can process — a violent roll of nausea surges up my throat. I lurch upright, but it's too late. Vomit projects across my blanket, hot and acrid, splashing onto my bare legs.

Byron's voice continues from the phone, now resting on my pillow as I heave again, my body violently expelling the remnants of last night's poor decisions. Tears stream from my eyes, partly from the force of vomiting, partly from the horror of what I've done.

When the retching finally subsides, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and wipe off the splattered vomit as much as I can with the other blanket. Then I pick up my phone.

"I'm sorry," I croak. "I was throwing up. I didn't hear what you said."

"Jesus, Saylor." His disgust carries clearly through the phone. "Are you still drunk?"

I glance down at the mess on my blanket, at my body in the same lingerie Cade fucked me in. I wore this set in hopes to get lucky, and it turned out I didn't get so lucky because out of all cocks at the party last night, I had to land on Cade's. He's the only person I've ever truly hated. The irony isn't lost on me.

"No," I answer, swallowing against the sour taste in my mouth. "Just puked it all out. I'm very, very hungover."

"I haven't slept since your call," he says, his voice quieter now but no less intense. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be woken up by your girlfriend drunk calling you to announce she fucked someone else?"

Each word lands like a slap. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. "I'm not your girlfriend, Byron."

Byron gasps. "Yeah, you fucking are. You think breaking up with me over a fucking text message is a legit way to break up? We didn't even get a chance to talk!"

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