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After the third song ends, the brunette slides off me, allowing another girl to take her place. I’m so buzzed from my eighth shot that her face is a bit of a blur. The one girl I really want isn’t single, and she can’t stand to breathe the same air as me.
I shrug against the couch. “They claim that a security guard watched the whole thing while it was happening and offered the local news the tape in exchange for money.”
I don’t even want to mention the part about how I suspect one of my teammates of knowing the girl was young and setting the whole thing up. Not that it matters who orchestrated it because I’m the one who decided to take the bait when she threw herself at me. I didn’t want to take her back to my apartment or attempt to fuck her in my Porsche. It was my teammate who suggested The Ritz-Carlton before we left the bar that night.
Holding on to the stripper’s waist, Kane raises his eyebrows. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Who the fuck knows? It didn’t matter once it hit YouTube. Fucking video had forty-million hits online before my lawyer managed to get it taken down from their site.”
“Damn. Tough break, man. I guess it’s a good thing she wasn’t one of those chicks looking to get famous or score money from a sex tape.”
“Anything would’ve been better than her being the team owner’s granddaughter. The old man was so pissed, he told the GM that he couldn’t stand the sight of me and for him to find a way to get rid of me. Now, here I am, getting trashed with you two degenerates.”
“Hey,” Donovan says without taking his eyes off the girl in front of him. “Speak for yourself, Parker.”
Double-fisting the last two shot glasses on the table, I raise one to Donovan and the other to Kane, and they raise their beer bottles in acknowledgment.
Eight hours later, we stumble into the parking lot, thousands of dollars lighter and with three girls on our arms. We’re so drunk that Drea had to call us a limo to take us back to my apartment. It’s two a.m., and my stomach is turning from all the alcohol I’ve consumed. But, at least when I’m drunk, I don’t have to think about everything that’s happened in the past year. It’s only a temporary fix, but it’s become the one constant in my life, and I need it more than sex or hockey some days.
All I can think about is opening that bottle of Macallan and passing out on my sofa. Not the girl draped on my arm or the fact that I have a meeting with the general manager of my team in the afternoon. Before we reach my building, we roll through the drive-through at McDonald’s and devour two combo meals each. The girls ordered a milk shake that they’re feeding to each other, putting on a show, as if they were still at work.
Once the driver drops us off at my place, we take the eleva
tor to the twenty-fifth floor and barrel into my apartment, about to start the final leg of this party. Kane opens the refrigerator and sets six bottles of Heineken on the island. He flips off the tops with the bottle opener on his keychain and slides them down the bar to each of us.
I usually save beer for guests, reserving the good liquor for myself. Beer is like water to an alcoholic. It’s never strong enough and takes way too much to get hammered. I’m not one of those people who enjoys the taste of expensive liquors, but if I’m planning to get wasted, it should be top shelf, preferably imported.
Donovan finds the switch on the wall for the sound system that’s wired throughout the apartment and turns on a classic rock channel. Def Leppard’s music fills the room, the beat of the bass making the floor vibrate beneath my foot. The brunette I took home after her shift follows me to the couch, her beer raised to her lips.
Before I get a chance to sit, she attaches herself to my arm. I’m unstable after drinking so much whiskey, her extra weight causing us to fall backward and onto the leather. I stare at the lights across the river as Trixie, or whatever made-up stripper name she uses, straddles me and then removes her top. Taking my hand, she slides it onto her breast and begins to grind on me.
I polish off my beer by the time the song ends, and Donovan hands me another before taking a seat next to me with his girl. The room is spinning nicely, my mind drifting to another plane. Resting my head back against the cushion, I take a swig of my beer and focus on the girl in front of me, Charlotte.
No, that’s not right.
I blink a few times, almost positive I’m dreaming, until the stripper rolls onto the other side of the couch, and Charlotte stands over me, an angry scowl on her face. She’s talking, but I can barely read her lips to make out the words. The music is so loud, each thump of the bass makes my head pound.
Someone turns the music down, and now, Charlotte is sitting next to me, placing her hand on my forehead.
“How much did you drink?” she asks.
“A fuck-ton,” I mumble, slurring my words.
“Alex.” She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “Do I have to call Mickey? I really don’t want to tell him about this, but I don’t think I can ignore that you have a problem.”
“I don’t have a problem. You do.”
“Oh, and what is that? Please, enlighten me.”
I tilt my head to the side until my eyes meet hers. “For starters, minding your own business.”
Somehow, Charlotte’s presence is sobering me up. I can make out little things about her appearance, like the fact that she’s wearing a black tank top with no bra and gray pajama pants with pink dots on them. Her caramel hair frames her makeup-free face. A sleeping mask rests on top of her head.
I trace my finger down the length of her bare arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps. “Are we having a sleepover, sweetheart? If we are, you’re going to have to undress me first.”
Charlotte shakes her head and stands, looking behind me. “I’m blaming you for this, Kane. I know this was your doing.”
“Coach, we were just showing Alex a good time,” Kane says, defensive.
