Junkie(4)

I became mesmerized by his movements. Everything else was blurry and unfocused, but he wasn’t. I could see him clearly.

He had a long torso, lean and firm. The way the waffle knit tee he wore clung to his frame seemed like the most interesting thing I’d seen in a long time. I watched him straighten and turn, shove his hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

His long fingers pulled back out, a wallet clutched between them, and he tossed that onto the dresser, too.

His hips were narrow and his legs were long and lean. He looked good in the jeans. They weren’t too tight, but they weren’t baggy either.

His feet were bare. I didn’t know where his socks went, but I didn’t care. That patch of bare skin—even on his feet—made my mouth go dry.

Or maybe I was just dehydrated.

“I need water,” I said abruptly and pushed up off the mattress. My sudden movement caused a wave of nausea, and I lurched forward.

Drew was ready, and just as I started barfing, a trashcan appeared under me.

How the hell was there anything left inside me to puke up? I felt like I’d been puking for hours, and I was so spent I couldn’t even hold the trashcan.

Drew held it for me.

He stood there silently, holding the can in front of my hunched-over form while I heaved and made sounds I hoped to never hear again.

Even after I stopped, he stood there, holding it, making sure I was completely done before he moved back.

“I’m good,” I said weakly after a few long moments and turned my face away.

His large palm fell against my back and patted twice before settling against my shirt. That single touch left me feeling a little more grounded, a little less shaky and in danger of literally passing out right there.

Leaving his palm where it was, he leaned away and set down the can. I dropped my head in my hands and shuddered.

God, I felt like fucking rotten ass. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you so drunk?” Drew demanded.

“Vodka,” I muttered darkly.

He made a sound like that wasn’t an answer. “What the hell possessed you to drink so much tonight?”

“I just wanted a break,” I muttered.

“A break from what?”

“Huh?”

Drew’s hand clenched into a fist against my back. “Trent. What the fuck?”

“Don’t be mad,” I heard myself say and fell back on the bed.

“I’m not mad.”

“You sound mad.”

“Good fucking thing I showed up tonight.” He half growled and moved away from the bed.

I heard the rustling of clothes, but I didn’t look. My head hurt. “I don’t like when you drive without me.”

Drew appeared over me, staring down from the side of the mattress. Something about his presence caused me to open my eyes.

Our stares locked.

I felt some things I didn’t know how to back away from. Alcohol made it hard to lie.

“Is that what this is about? You’re pissed ‘cause I went driving without you?” he asked, low.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt anymore, and in place of the jeans was a pair of loose basketball shorts. His dark-blond hair was messy, and his mouth was drawn into a grim line.

The way his eyes looked just then… it was like he could see.

I rolled onto my side away from him. “Sometimes a guy just wants to get drunk.”

And sometimes a guy wants to forget.

My stomach rolled and my back jerked with the force of my heave. Drew muttered a curse and dove across the bed, just barely getting the can in front of me as I starting puking again.

He was partially lying across me, and even half out of my mind and sick as a dog, I still noticed the way his weight felt on me. The way I was pressed so fully into the mattress by his size. It helped make me feel less shaky in the moment.

When I finally stopped throwing up long enough to breathe, Drew sank onto the floor near my head.

“Fuck, man,” I said between more heaving. “I’m sorry. You should have left me at home.”

“You are home.”

It was spoken so quietly I thought maybe it had been a thought in my own mind and not a sentence off his lips.

I glanced up, my bloodshot, watery eyes trying so hard to focus on his.

He stared back without a word. Just stared.

Had he spoken, or was it a thought?

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Think you’re done?”

“I hope so,” I rasped. My throat was raw and burned. The inside of my mouth tasted like road kill, and my body ached.

He nodded and quickly tied the bag closed in the can and quickly replaced it with a fresh one.

“Here,” he said and shoved the can into my arms before disappearing for a few minutes.

When he reappeared, he had a bottle of water and a bottle of aspirin. I groaned, and he set the stuff aside. “It’s for later.”