Sweet (True Believers #2)(48)
Author: Erin McCarthy

But he still shook his head. “I don’t want it like this.”

He didn’t want me. That’s what I heard. I rolled off of him and curled up against the edge of the bed, feeling as rejected as I had when I had been cut from the cheerleading squad in seventh grade for f**king up a back handspring.

“I want you to remember it,” he said.

“What I’m going to remember is that you’re a prick,” I said venomously.

“Don’t be irrational.” He touched my back and I swatted at him.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Fine.”

“Whatever.” I closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry. No tears. Jessica Sweet didn’t cry. It was the golden rule.

My body was aching with the need for an orgasm and my stomach was roiling from the alcohol. I tried to breathe quickly in and out of my nose, nausea climbing. The damn waterbed was moving, further contributing to the bed spins from all the booze. It was like being on the deck of a ship. For a second I thought I was going to be okay, but then Riley rolled over and the whole bed undulated. I grabbed the lip of the frame and felt my stomach heave in protest.

Game over. I sat up and fumbled my way out of bed and along the wall.

“Where are you going?”

I didn’t bother to say anything, just clawed at the door until I yanked it open and dashed into the bathroom, topless, my shorts unzipped. I flicked on the light, blinding myself, and barely had time to flip up the lid on the toilet before I threw up, the stench of peanut butter and chocolate making me cough and choke as vodka and Reese’s and bile expelled from my stomach.

Riley appeared behind me and I waved him off, not wanting him to see me like this. After the heaving stopped, I still clung to the toilet, on my knees, drool dangling from my mouth.

He lifted my heavy hair off my face and smoothed it over my back. “You okay?”

I nodded. As good as anyone can be horking topless in front of her boyfriend who won’t have sex with her. Sinking backward, I shifted my legs and sat on my ass, leaning against the wall, wiping my mouth with my arm. My eyes were watering, and I noticed how badly torn up my knee actually was from falling. There was dried blood dripping down my leg.

The faucet turned on and suddenly Riley’s hand was in my face, and he was gently wiping my mouth, eyes, cheeks with a towel. Then he dried me off and shifted to my knee, dabbing at the dirt and blood. When he put a T-shirt over my head and dressed me like a doll, carefully pushing my arms through the holes, I wasn’t any help to him, but I didn’t resist either.

I waited for the recriminations, the judgment over taking that last shot.

But he didn’t tell me I was stupid.

That was the voice in my own head, not his.

“Are you going to throw up again?” he asked, squatting in front of me, knuckles gently drifting down my cheek.

“I don’t think so.”

“Let me help you back to bed then.”

“I can’t sleep on that waterbed. It’s moving.” Just the memory of it made me gag a little.

“Okay, you can sleep on the couch. Come on.” He lifted me under my armpits and dragged me to my feet.

With his help I stumbled to the couch and collapsed, pulling one of the new pillows under my head and sighing. I closed my eyes, but that made the spinning start again, so I kept them resolutely open as Riley draped a blanket over me. It was too hot for the blanket, but I left it, appreciating his care.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

In the dark room, he leaned over and gave me a half smile. “Vodka happens. No big deal.”

That wasn’t what I meant. I was trying to tell him that I was sorry for being me. I shook my head. “No. For everything.” For not being good enough for him, because I knew that I wasn’t. I was a liar and afraid to stand up to my parents, passive in my life, and far too willing to put out instead of make emotional connections with people.

My last name shouldn’t be Sweet, it should be Sour. Jessica Sour. That was me.

A big tart, mouth puckering, acidic mess.

That was my last drunken thought before I drifted off to sleep, Riley still petting my hair.

***

I woke up out of a restless sleep burning hot, mouth dry. I jerked when I realized that Easton was sitting on the coffee table watching me. “Hey,” I mumbled, my throat sore. I checked under the blanket to make sure I was wearing clothes, because I had a memory of being topless while puking.

But I was wearing a soft T-shirt, so I kicked the blanket off with my feet, boiling hot, hair damp with sweat.

“Hey,” he said. “If you give me ten bucks, I’ll go the store and get you Red Bull. That’s the best thing for a hangover, my mom always said that.”

Wonderful. I was sending him back into memories of his hard-partying mother. “That’s nice of you, but I’m okay.” I also thought Red Bull was probably a poor choice for dehydration, but what did I know? There hadn’t been a lot of nights where I had hit it like I had the night before.

His leg bounced. “Are you sure?”

Suddenly suspicious, I swallowed hard and studied him, picking at my left eye, which seemed gummed shut with mascara. “Do you want to go to the store?” I asked carefully.

He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Are you conning Jessica?” Riley said, coming into the room in basketball shorts, no shirt. “Beat it, punk.”

Easton sent me one last meaningful look that I didn’t understand and ran past his brother, darting out of the way as Riley tried to rub the top of his head.

“Why does he want to go to the store?” I asked, trying to pull myself to a sitting position with a sigh.

“He takes a cut of the money and buys himself candy. Plus I think the dude at the 7-Eleven lets him look at the latest issue of Playboy.”

“Oh. At least he’s enterprising.”

Riley laughed. “I guess you could call it that. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Jayden came into the room. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed when he saw me. “What happened to you? You look like butthole!”

Perfect. Even Jayden recognized a hot mess when he saw one.

“U!” Riley frowned at him. “That’s a pretty goddamn rude thing to say to a chick.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Jayden looked at me, his apology looking and sounding sincere. But then he added equally truthfully, “But you do look terrible.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh. “I’m sure I do. This is why vodka has a warning label.”