“No,” I say, shaking my head adamantly. “You don’t understand. I’m not supposed to be here.”
“You’re not supposed to be where?”
“Here, at the party.” I grimace. “Sorry, but I’m going home, not to the hospital. I’m fine.”
It’s my intent to turn and walk away, but my feet won’t move yet. I’m not sure if that’s because I don’t want to take my hands off Hercules’s biceps or because, as Hercules said, I’ve been drugged.
Hercules’s strong hands grasp my waist to steady me. I stiffen because I wonder if the fat around my waist repels him.
He crimps his gorgeous eyebrows. “You were given pinkies. And that’s some pretty strong shit. I’m surprised you’re standing on your own two feet right now and talking to me.”
Suddenly, nausea climbs up my throat. I jerk as I fill my lungs with fume-tainted air. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop me from dry heaving. How embarrassing. I feel about as sour as whatever just leaked into my mouth.
“This way,” Hercules says, guiding me to a wastebasket against the wall separating two sets of elevators.
Once my eyes connect with the opening, I bend over, and Hercules gathers my fluffy long hair and holds my locks away from my face. I retch several times before a bitter mixture of stomach acids, lunch, after-school snack, sugary soft drink, and liquor splashes against the trash. A quivering grunt escapes me as I wait to hurl again. I’m mortified that Hercules saw me do that.
The door to the private lobby opens. The fumes are overwhelming, and I want to vomit again, but I force myself not to do it.
“Is everything okay in here?” a valet asks.
I’m too embarrassed to look at him, but I can see in my peripheral vision that his upper body is leaning across the doorjamb.
“Everything’s fine,” Hercules says. “Oh, wait. Could you get us some napkins?”
“Yeah, be right back.”
Clutching my stomach, I groan. It’s all so very humiliating.
“Feel better?” Hercules asks.
Not really.Hand over my mouth, I slowly stand erect.
The door opens. “Here you go, sir,” the valet says.
Hercules rushes over to get the wad of napkins. I avoid looking both of them in the eyes.
“Take these,” Hercules says.
I focus on the white napkins as I take them from him, wipe my mouth, and throw them into the trash.
Finally, I take a deep breath in through my nose, let the air out slowly, and face him. His smile is warm, sympathetic. Mine is faint, and given how mortified I am, I’m shocked it showed up at all.
“My stomach isn’t nauseous anymore,” I say.
“Paisley, you should still get yourself checked out.”
I'm mesmerized by the movement of his lips. I love the ease with which my name rolled off his tongue. I want to hear him say it again, but I also realize he’s urging me to do the impossible.
A slight of wave of dizziness hits me, but I pretend I’m not experiencing it as I stand firm and cross my arms. “I didn’t drink all of whatever O’Brien gave me, because it tasted awful. I sipped it slowly, trying to convince him I liked it more than I did.”
Revealing that part embarrasses me again. I don’t want Hercules to think I like O’Brien more than I do or that I’m willing to do anything to win a boy’s approval. I’m so not that girl.
The skin puckers between his eyes as his frown grows more intense. “I can’t force you to do what you don’t want to do. But aren’t you angry that he did it? Because I am.” He glares over at the elevator doors as if O’Brien is standing there, waiting to be pounced on.
How do I explain what I feel to a boy who barely said two words to me all year long? “You just don’t understand,” I whisper.
“Then help me understand.” His tone is sharp, insistent.
