Did I…do anything? I don’t give a shit if I was drunk. It wouldn’t excuse my forcing myself on her. I look down. Since I’m still in my clothes, un-torn and basically undamaged, I probably didn’t cross that line.
Whew. So what did I do next? I wrack my brain, then it hits me.
I took the proposal back, while still lying on top of her.
Oh shit.
Then what? She…kneed me in the balls? Slapped my face?
I don’t recall. After that, everything faded to black.
I cover my face and put pressure on the spot between my eyebrows with my middle finger. Fuck me. What the hell have I done?
“How are you feeling?” Paige asks.
“I’m fine.” Then a realization dawns on me. “You’re in my room.”
“Ah, no, this is actually my room. Yours would be next door.”
Shit. Fucking hotel clerks. They probably thought I wanted to rendezvous with Paige without realizing she isn’t some H&D wannabe. “Did you spend the night here?” This is getting embarrassing because I don’t remember that part either.
“No. Once I knew you were fine, I went to your suite. Which, by the way, is nicer than mine. I’m only here to check on you.” She stands up. “Our car’s going to be here in half an hour. You might want to get up and, you know, shower. I asked the cabin crew to prepare a hot breakfast for you.”
She turns smartly, about to walk out, and I say, “Wait,” before I can catch myself.
She glances over a shoulder. “Yes?”
Her voice is coolly professional, and my gaze drops. “Nothing. I’ll be down in the lobby in thirty.”
She nods and leaves.
Ah, great. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Just what the hell happened last night? I’ve never drunk that much, enough to pass out and not remember.
“Arrrrggghhhh!”
I shove my hands against the sides of my head and hop into the shower. It’s all Dad’s fault. I shouldn’t even call him Dad anymore. Just Julian. He deserves that.
I’m going to sue the son of a bitch. He deserves that too. He’s going down. I should’ve opted for that last night, instead of getting shitfaced and propositioning Paige. Mira knows every nasty asshole attorney in the city. Surely she knows one who can fuck him over.
My new purpose in life energizes me. I throw on a blue polo shirt and shorts.
But a lot of my anger and energy deflate when I see Paige again in the lobby. Dad didn’t force the liquor down my throat. He didn’t make me act like a total jackass with her last night, and I feel like pond scum.
She’s tapping out something on her phone, her brows knitted together. Underneath the makeup, she is paler, and her mouth is stretched thin and flat.
The drive to the airport is awkward and silent. It’s ten times worse than our flight to Virginia.
And what’s even worse than that is…I don’t know how to fix the situation so I can breathe again.
Chapter Eight
Paige
Ryder leaves town on Monday to “go fishing,” which is his code for either getting laid or partying. Whichever it is, I’m sort of glad after that crazy proposal. I already have enough on my plate, mainly how I’m going to adjust to having a baby on my own…and how I’m going to tell my family.
Frankly, figuring out the first is easier than the second. In addition to disappointing Mom and Simon, it’ll prove that the whispers I heard while growing up were right—that I’m a troublemaker, bound to let people down no matter how things appear now because sooner or later I’m going to do something bad.
Getting pregnant out of wedlock definitely counts.
Ryder’s still not back by Friday COB. I don’t think he’s in trouble…if he were, he would’ve contacted me or his lawyers. However, he should be about partied out by now. The previous record is four days.
Sunday morning, I drive to a modest house in the suburbs. My stepsister, Bethany, and her husband, Oliver, bought it last year. The previous owner was in financial trouble, and the property was about to go into foreclosure. So they got a pretty decent deal, considering that this is L.A.
Since it’s the biggest of all our homes, Bethany and Oliver usually host our get-togethers. My roommate Renni and her twin brother are invited as well. All of us being transplants, we’ve bonded tightly over the years.
By the time I ring the doorbell, it’s ten thirty. Bethany answers in a pink apron streaked with flour. There’s some on her cheek as well. Her white t-shirt is comfy and old, and a pair of cropped blue-jeans ends at the middle of her calves. Bright, neon pink polish looks great on her narrow feet, which are currently bare.
A yellow number two pencil skewers the messy brown bun sitting on top of her head. Her smile wide and welcoming, she wraps me up in a hug. “Come on in.”