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I should’ve stopped her. Should’ve thrown her over my shoulder and carried her out of there, consequences be damned. But like the little bitch I am, I let her walk away. Again.
Fuck! Why can’t I just pull my head out of my ass?
After Henry basically tears me a new one over her, we talk for a few more minutes, and then he leaves for his office. I pour myself a glass of Jack Daniels—hair of the dog—and collapse onto my black leather sofa. My head falls back against the cushions as I try to remember Krista showing up.
The memory of hitting dial on the phone is somewhat clear because there was no way I could text, and it was her voice I wanted. I even remember the call being answered and begging like a dog, even though she never said a word. Then I passed out.
Again, I wonder how the fuck she got in.
But nothing happened. There’s no way something happened, and I forgot. I’ve been drunk plenty of times in my life, but never that drunk.
I’ve also never woke up feeling like this. My damn head won’t stop pounding. I’m shocked I’m not curled around the toilet.
Shit. Spoke too soon.
Launching off the sofa, I don’t even try to make it to the bathroom, instead, heading straight for the kitchen. Over the sink, I heave until there’s nothing left, then heave some more. What in the goddamn fuck? I drank a lot last night, but this has never happened. I’m not sure I’ve ever even had a hangover, much less feel like I’ve been road-hauled.
Flipping the handle of the faucet, I wash the vomit down the drain, then splash my face with water before dropping my forehead against the stainless steel. The cool metal soothes my burning skin, and when I’m confident my remaining insides won’t try to forcefully eject themselves out of my body, I go to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. I’m dehydrated as hell. Even before my adventures with the sink, I could feel it. My skin feels tight and itchy. My hands feel stiff and swollen.
Just shoot me now. Put me out of my freaking misery. Because I have never felt like this in my life.
I return to the sofa and pick up Casey’s phone. Once again, I get in without issue because, of course, my kid doesn’t have a passcode on her shit. She’s grown now, but I suppose the habit I enforced when she was still a child is set firm in her mind.
Not even bothering with her contacts app, I bring up the dial pad and punch in my number. Points to me for knowing my damn phone number.
She answers on the third ring, and it’s obvious she hasn’t noticed the swap yet. “Hello. Hang on. I’m trying to figure out why my phone is showing me my name when it rings.”
“Case,” I say before she spirals down the rabbit hole. “Our phones got mixed up last night.”
“Dad? How did they…”
“It’s not important. But we need to swap back.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Why do you sound weird?”
Because apparently turning thirty-five meant my ability to handle my liquor vanished overnight.
Of course, I don’t say that. “Not feeling great, Casey bear.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy. Anything I can do to help?”
“Nah. We just need to switch phones. I know you’re not overly attached to yours, but I kind of need mine.”
“I’m just leaving to work on a group project for a class, then I’m going to the dance studio to get in some extra practice. But I’ll set the phone on the counter. You can come and get it anytime you like.”
Despite feeling like shit twice over, the wheels in my head instantly start turning. I’m a sick, masochistic jackass because all I can think about is the opportunity to see Lily. “Yeah. I’ll do that. And thank you for the party, princess.”
We end the call, and I head straight for the bathroom to shower away the stench of last night. My reflection in the mirror shows I look as bad as I feel. Even worse than I know I looked last night. Sleep has not been my friend for the last two weeks.
As I strip off my clothes, disgust roils my stomach. My chest and back are covered in scratch marks. There are fucking bite marks, too. My hand drags over my face as I stare at my reflection. Then the reflection spiders when my fist connects with the face staring back at me.
“You stupid, stupid son of a bitch.”
The evidence on my skin should be the proof I need, but I know Krista. She is not above staging something if it will benefit her somehow. Henry’s right. Something isn’t right. I still don’t believe I did anything with Krista, but just her being here is enough. Enough to make my skin crawl and my stomach turn. But I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what she could be up to.
I hadn’t seen her in years until the Grammy party a few months ago. Why would she come slinking around now?
It doesn’t matter. I don’t have the energy or mental capacity to figure out Krista now, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to. I’ve known her for thirty years. If I haven’t figured her out by now, I never will.
