Page 7 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
A grunt has me turning back to my car.
“Rose?” I ask, peering in the rear side door.
“Slow down! You’re driving too fast.”
“Um, we aren’t moving, Rose. We’re still parked.”
This gets me a flutter of lashes, like she’s trying to open her eyes, but her body’s fighting it. “Well shit.” She manages one eye again. “You better get a bucket then. This probably won’t go well.”
Awesome. Just awesome.
* * *
“Rose? Rose! Wake up!”I’m driving around Clear Lake Forest, one of the coolest neighborhoods around NASA. All the great astronauts used to live here: John, Gus, Alan and most of the rest of the Mercury Seven. Even some of the Apollo boys. It’s one of the few neighborhoods in the area established enough to have big trees lining the streets.
“Rose! What was the house number again?”
She stirs a bit from the back and lurches upright. I brace for vomit, but nothing happens.
Rose looks left, then right, then straight ahead. “Fuck. Where am I?”
“You’re in my car,” I say, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “I’m taking you home. What is the house number?”
“Huh?” She starts blinking rapidly. “Wait, why are you driving me? Who are you?”
“Seriously?” At the stop sign I rest my head on the steering wheel.
“I’m just playing.” She laughs and points between the two front seats. “It’s up a few houses on the right. At the end of the cul-de-sac.” She slumps back.
I pull up to a one-story house. It has a low-pitched roof, a large picture window in the front and metal scroll work on the sides of the door that is classic 1960s modern. I love it.
“Your house is awesome.” I whisper for some reason. When no response is forthcoming, I put the car in park and get out.
But before I can open the door, it’s shoved open so hard I think it might come unhinged. Rose heaves herself out and stands next to me. “It isn’t my house.” She stumbles forward, leaving me to close the door.
“You good now?” No sooner have I said this than she face-plants in the grass. Thankfully she misses the flagstone path.
* * *
A few minutesof huffing and puffing later, I manage to get the keys from Rose and muscle her into the foyer and down the hall to the room she slurred is hers. Too bad it’s so dark. I would love to see the house in the light. I bet it has original mid-century modern elements throughout. Maybe even terrazzo tile. With one final heave, Rose is face down, yet again, but this time on her bed. With her boots on.
“What the fuck?”
I whirl around to see a guy in the doorway. And not just any guy—it’s the holy-crap-o-la hot guy from earlier.
And. He. Is. Shirtless.
His glare is focused on the bed, where Rose rolls over so that she can flip the hot guy the bird.
“You weren’t this drunk when I left, Rose. What did you do?”
“Shots.” Rose giggles and starts chanting, “Shots, shots, shots, shots…”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“Jesus.” Hot guy rolls his eyes and looks at the ceiling. “You said you were cut off. Pam said you were going to dance off the booze and leave.” He tilts his head back down and stares at the floor like he wants to pound it. “I should’ve known better than to listen to any of your friends.”
Rose snorts. “Yeah, my friends are lame.” She furrows her brow. “But they used to be your friends too.”
