Instead of words, I nod my response because my throat went dry picturing her wet, hard nipples.
Shit. I need to get laid. It’s been months.
Joey pours me a drink and hands it to me before circling the counter and throwing herself down onto the L-shaped couch, Woody scampering behind her to catch up. Her glass barely makes the coffee table as she buries her face in the pillow with a deep sigh of relief, just as Woody climbs up to curl underneath her arm.
She mumbles something I can’t make out as I plop down on the end of the couch, nearest her head, the top of her head butting up against my thigh. I swallow down a sip of the Jameson.
A cough escapes my throat from the peaty liquid and I nearly gag with the reminder that not even a week ago I had the hangover from hell from this stuff. When I swore to myself that I’d never drink again. But then my senses are calmed by the low-burn and mossy scent of the liquor, and the warm, sultry scent of Joey.
When I tip my head down at the beautiful, strung-out woman on the couch next to me, I decide that acting neighborly is the right call to action. She’s had a day from hell, and I consider it my duty to help her out. I’ll save the alpha-male for another time.
Joey’s strawberry blonde hair spills out over her face and the pillow, and before I can stop myself, I push back the silken curls from her face. Her wide emerald green eyes pop open and I notice goosebumps spreading across her neck and arms.
For some reason, it thrills me to know that my touch can produce such a sensation. I wonder where else on this long, gorgeous body that gooseflesh can register.
Once again, I shake the thoughts free and remind myself to be friendly, not freaky, as I hand her the drink from the table. Our fingers briefly touch in the exchange.
“Thanks,” she says, sitting up against the back of the couch and taking one large gulp, finishing the drink without even batting an eye.
I’m a little more than impressed, considering I’m a light-weight with whisky.
“Here, drink the rest of mine,” I instruct, passing her my nearly untouched glass to her and removing the empty one from her hand.
“Ugh,” she grumbles, throwing back the remainder of my drink, before choking out a cough from the strong remnants. “I might need you to get me the rest of the bottle.”
I chuckle and my eyes find hers to determine if she’s kidding or not, because I really don’t know if she’s serious. But the smirk on her full lips and the squint in her mischievous eyes tells me what I need to know.
Moving back into the kitchen, I grab the bottle from the counter and return to the couch, pouring us both another.
“Drink up. It’s not my booze. You can have as much as you want.”
This earns a beautiful, husky laugh and I take another sip from my drink. I can already feel the warmth swimming in my stomach.
I’ve never been much of a drinker. Usually just beers with my buddies or a bottle of wine with Alyssa. Her dad got us into some hoity-toity wine club and we’d get monthly deliveries of expensive bottles of wine. I actually began to enjoy the varieties and started reading up on wine in my spare time so I could be knowledgeable about the wine world.
Plus, it made me feel better about myself when we hung out with her parents, who were complete wine snobs.
Strong liquor, however, isn’t really my friend. I need to take heed of the warning signs flashing in my brain.
“Oh shit, this is strong.”
Joey cocks her head and laughs.
She teases. “We need to toughen you up a little if you’re going to continue hanging with Pat. He drinks like a fish.”
“Don’t I know it. The trouble he got me into when we were in college is the kind that I don’t want to have a repeat or even mention in polite company.”
I tip the glass up to my lips and take another sip. This time it goes down a bit smoother.
Joey looks at me thoughtfully. “Oh, I thought you two just met? I guess I got the impression that…”
I don’t know where she’s going with that, but I interrupt her. “Oh no. We go way back to our first year in college. But went our separate ways after graduation. You know how it is…things change. People grow and find their own paths. Plus, I met someone.”
I decide not to continue that story because the pain is still too fresh and hurt’s like a motherfucker. I want to push Alyssa and all our history we shared together out the window and into the gutter because that’s where it belongs. Along with my old identity.
Hindsight being twenty/twenty, I can now clearly see how she used and manipulated me for years. I was basically her puppet. She pulled the strings and I responded.
Well fuck that. No more.
