Page 8 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

Not gonna lie. I don’t even remember closing it.

Too. Much. Alcohol.

With a frown, I push myself onto my feet, pull up my underwear, and stumble to the sink. The cool water feels good against my hands as I wash them. The towel feels gross, though. Like it hasn’t been washed recently.

Or maybe it’s because there were so many people at the party.

I guess it makes sense.

A loud, jarring knock vibrates against the door again, and I jump in surprise.

“Now, Blake,” the low voice warns.

So bossy.

Grumbling under my breath, I unlock the door. The handle twists on its own, and the door is shoved open to reveal a very pissed off Theo.

“What’s your problem?” I slur.

“Mia and I have been trying to get you to open this door for five minutes.”

My brows furrow. “What?”

“We thought you’d passed out.”

“Blake!” Mia calls, squeezing past Teddy’s massive body through the doorframe. She pulls me into a hug.

“I’m sorry. Why are you hugging me?” I ask against her blonde hair. She smells good too. Like shampoo. I grin and take a giant whiff. “Girl. Why do you smell so good? You should let me borrow your shampoo next time along with this kickass dress.”

With a laugh, she pulls away from me. “Deal. But for now, let’s get you home, okay?”

“Cool.” I sway on my feet, and my stomach churns. “First, I gotta puke.”

The tile is cold against my knees as I collapse in front of the toilet and vomit like there’s no tomorrow. My chest heaves. My stomach twists. My throat burns. And my eyes water.

It freaking sucks.

I hate throwing up. The lack of control. The bitter, acidic taste. It’s seriously the worst.

Hands are in my hair, holding it away from my face as I hurl my guts out until there’s nothing left in my stomach but the realization I just vomited in front of an audience.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

I want to go home.

I want to go to sleep.

I want to erase this entire night.

Especially those last couple of drinks.

Man, I’m so embarrassed.

How can this be happening right now?

I rest my head against the hand cupping my temple while the other one keeps a firm grasp on my messy hair. It feels nice. The hand. It’s warm. Calloused. Gentle.

“You good?” a low voice murmurs.

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