Page 52 of Lucky Penny
Wondering what I’m supposed to do now that she remembers us, too.
21
Penny
NOW
The low hum of the heat through the vents stirs me, warm air brushing over my legs where the soft quilt slipped off. I reach toward the nightstand, hand fumbling for my water bottle or cup—anything to quench my dry throat. There’s a dull and rhythmic pounding in my head, making it impossible to think. I drag my hand across my forehead, feeling grossly slick.
Shit. I slept in my makeup.
Something I haven’t done since my drunken college days.
When I sit up, gently so the nausea doesn’t worsen, I wince. The zipper of my red miniskirt digs into my ribs. I need to get this off ASAP.
Much to my surprise, the rest of the room looks orderly. Good to know I didn’t rampage through here like a bulldozer last night. Everything is in place…except for the fact that I feel like I was dropped into bed by an airplane and splattered on impact.
With my feet dangling off the side of the bed, I roll out my sore ankles.
What the hell did I do last night?
The moment I sit up and see my raccoon eyes in the mirror, the memories come in quick flashes—the rock band, dancing on stage, the sting of too many vodka sodas.
I really wish it was a bad dream, but my body screams with movement, ensuring me it was real. Areallybad decision.
My black turtleneck sweater is stretched oddly across my chest. Nothing is worse than sleeping in a push-up bra.
If it wasn’t forhim, Fia and I would’ve had an easy-going night out like she asked for. We would’ve been home by eleven. I can’t even tell you what time I got home last night, or how. I don’t remember anything after…
Oh my god, I think Jesse pulled me down from the table where I was attempting to dance like I was inCoyote Ugly.
It’s his fault.
When he’s around, I can’t think straight. I am completely off the rails.
Jesse makes me act reckless.
My stomach protests as I down the lukewarm water next to me. I should probably make my way to the bathroom before I throw up in bed. That would be icing on the cake.
So much for being the big sister who takes care of things.
As I swing my legs slowly over the edge of the bed, the other side of the bed catches my attention in the mirror.
Is that…an imprint in the sheets?
Why does the pillow look like it’s been slept on? A sharp twist that has nothing to do with this hangover hits me like a ton of bricks.
Did Jesse sleep in here? That would be crazy.
No, I probably just thrashed in my sleep like a wild animal.
Just then, the bedroom door creaks open.
“Help, I’m dying,” I croak, hoping it’s Fia with a bottle of Pedialyte, but it’s not.
It’s Jesse. No shirt, just gray sweatpants that shouldn’t be as sexy as they are. And a steaming mug of what smells like coffee.
I don’t know where to look—the coffee that’s a godsend or the very large, very real, tattooed proof that somethingmight havehappened last night. He’s smirking at me like he has a secret.
