Page 51 of The Love of My Next Life
He gives me another shot, and I take that one too. I gag again.
“Ugh, it doesn’t get any better,” I cough out, and they roar with more laugher.
“Masters, your girlfriend don’t like liquor,” someone calls out. I want to say I’m not his girlfriend, but an arm wraps around my shoulder, and I glace up to find Eric holding out a bottle of water with a grimace.
“It’s nasty,” he says in my defense, and I nod in agreement. I twist the lid off the water and take a giant gulp, my head already starting to spin, then glance over Eric’s shoulder. Macon is glaring at me from the corner, so I grab another shot glass, flip him off, and don’t break eye contact until the demon liquid hits my tongue.
I cringe, but I don’t gag this time. Why the hell do people drink this stuff for fun?
“Let’s dance,” I say, my words starting to slur, but I’m determined to win this one. To make Macon...I don’t even know. Jealous? Angry? To make him feel even half of what he makes me feel. The thought ignites a spark of joy in my chest. I grab Eric’s hand and pull him through the house toward the music.
I move my body to the song with Eric’s hands on my waist. I block out the thought that, right now, I am every stupid “unpopular girl” stereotype in every teen movie who gets drunk at a party and makes an ass of herself. Will I dance on a table and hit my head on a chandelier? Will I vomit on someone’s shoes? I can’t bring myself to care.
The beat switches up, and I slow my movements, giving Eric my back and gliding myself over his front. His hands grip my hips and pull me closer. I press into him and lift my arms behind my head, so I can thread them around his neck.
Everything starts to feel heavy and warm, like moving through bath water. I can feel the music like it’s instructing my moves. I close my eyes and see every note in paint strokes. It’s beautiful and fascinating, and I want to laugh.
So, this is what it’s like being drunk. I kind of get it now.
I feel lips on my neck, a slow exhale dancing over my collarbone. I lay my head back on Eric’s shoulder and turn my face to his, but before his lips touch mine, he’s ripped from my hands, and I’m jostled forward. I spin around just in time to see Eric stumble back, then Macon throws me over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” I screech, using one arm to cover my chest and the other to beat on his back. I thrash about, twisting back and forth in the fireman’s hold. Briefly, I’m reminded of Macon at the fairgrounds and the way he was dangled lifeless over Julian’s shoulder, but that thought flits away. “This isn’t funny!”
“Dude, Davis, put her down, man, what are you doing?” Eric shouts from behind us, a small hint of confused humor in his voice.
“Stay out of it, Masters, or I’ll hit you so hard you gotta sit out next game,” Macon threatens over his shoulder. Eric throws up his palms and stops in his tracks.
“No! Macon,” I yell, hitting him again. “Put me the fuck down! Put. Me. Down!”
“Shut the fuck up, Lennon, Jesus Christ,” he scolds, and I thrash and hit him harder. “You want me to drop you on your fucking head?” he shouts, then a sharp crack sounds through the air and over my skin, my ass burning. “Quit fucking moving.”
“You just smacked my ass,” I screech again and pound on his back. It vibrates with a laugh. “Put me down you big...stupid...fucking...dummy!” He snorts and smacks my ass again.
“I said you were done drinking, Lennon. You’re going home.”
The wordhomestills me. Instant calm. Instant cooperation. I do want to go home. I want to go to sleep.
“Claire’s DD,” I mumble, and prop my elbow on his back, so I can rest my chin on my fist. My head bounces with each step, and I pretend I’m riding a horse.
We get closer and closer to the bonfire, and then Macon stops in his tracks. He groans.
“What the hell?” I hear Claire yell. “Is that Lennon? Put her down, asshole!”
“Claire, are you fucking drunk?” Macon asks, and I jolt up. I try to push up with both hands, but my shirt starts to fall over my face, so I clamp one arm over it again. I should have worn a bra. This shirt is the worst.
“No,” I say, trying to see over his shoulder, “she’s DD.”
Macon smacks my ass again, making me yelp, and Claire yells something at him.
“Real fucking nice, Claire,” Macon says, using the hand not holding me hostage to pull something out of his back pocket. “Real responsible.”
Macon turns and walks away, giving me a view of a very angry Claire glaring at us with a plastic cup in her hand.
“I’m just buzzed,” Claire argues, and I huff, my alcohol-addled brain trying to make sense of the situation. She drank? No. She was DD. She promised. She wouldn’t do that. Friends keep their promises. My jaw drops, but she says nothing to me.
Macon’s talking to someone. Not to me and not to Claire. He makes his way down the long gravel driveway with Claire stomping after us, and when we get to the road, Chris Casper is waiting in his idling truck. My head pounds, and the smell of exhaust turns my stomach.
“Gonna barf,” I mumble, and I’m lifted and spun until I’m on my knees with someone holding my hair back as I puke into the ditch.
