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My eyelids begin to droop, and the stress of the situation and the fact that it’s now four a.m. are coaxing me into a trance. I need sleep. Without thinking too long about it, I climb into bed with Alex, lie down next to him, and press my palm to his skin. He feels cooler already. This worked in the past with my parents.
If I’m lucky, Alex will sleep off the alcohol and get to his meeting on time. I need him to make it there, or Mickey will drive from New York just to chew my ass out. Overcome with exhaustion, I close my eyes and fall asleep to the sound of Alex snoring, my hand still on his chest.
Alex
When I wake up, I have something heavy balanced on my forehead, and it’s moving. There’s a liquid of some kind dripping down the side of my face, more is pooling on my stomach, and my legs are wet.
What the fuck?
My head throbs, crushing my skull with each pulse. Unfortunately, that part has become a normal element of my morning routine. A woman is lying next to me in bed with her back facing me, her ass pressed against my side. That’s also normal.
Please don’t be the stripper.
I’m no stranger to strip clubs, but I don’t make a habit of taking the girls home either. If they want to shake their tits in my face and grind on my dick, that’s fine, but I’d never kiss a stripper, let alone have sex with one.
For the second time this week, I’m in an unfamiliar bedroom with a strange girl, and I have no idea where I am or how I got here. The last thing I remember, I was in my new apartment, pounding a beer with a girl on my lap, and the rest blurs together. I reach for the object that’s leaking all over my pillow—an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel.
What kind of kinky games were we playing last night?
No matter how many times I tell myself that I’m going to stop drinking, I have shit willpower, and my craving for the next glass overpowers everything else. The image of my father lying unconscious in that hospital bed, tubes connected to his mouth, nose, and arms, play in my head like a highlight reel, except it hasn’t gone away, no matter how hard I try to drink it away.
The night I saw my father in the hospital, I opened the bottle of Macallan he’d been saving in his liquor cabinet. My dad wasn’t much of a drinker. It was a gift from a colleague that he planned to hold on to for a special day—what he hoped would be the day my team won the Stanley Cup.
We were so close last year. My dad was supposed to be in remission. The Caps were on fire, and I was in the zone. Everything was going so well. I’d even racked up fifteen points throughout the first three rounds of the playoffs, and midway through g
ame one of the Stanley Cup finals, my father collapsed in a club box. By the time I found out and made it to the hospital, he was already sedated. Three days later, he was gone.
I’ve been drinking myself to sleep every night since I opened that bottle of whiskey. Now, I’m in another stranger’s bed, too sore to move and wondering why I’m wet.
I tap her on the shoulder, and she stirs, a tiny sound escaping her lips.
“It’s not time yet,” she mutters under her breath. “Five more minutes.”
I recognize her voice. No, it can’t be. Sitting up, I remove the ice packs from my chest and legs and then set them on the nightstand beside the bed. Almost afraid to look, I peek over at her, both excited and terrified when I see Charlotte next to me.
She’s wearing a black tank top without a bra and gray pajama pants with pink spots. I lean against the wooden headboard and stare up at the ceiling.
Mickey is going to murder me. This cannot be happening. As much as I wanted to hook up with Charlotte, I will never hear the end of it once Mickey gets wind of this.
I’m not sure where we are, but the room lacks any personality—white walls, wooden furniture, modern paintings devoid of color or warmth, and minimal decor. It’s clean and polished to perfection, more like an expensive hotel room, except it feels unlived in, reminding me of a museum.
An alarm clock on the table next to Charlotte’s side of the bed reads ten thirty a.m.
My meeting with Mike Turner, the Flyers general manager, starts in three hours. That gives me plenty of time to mix my hangover cure, take a shower, and if I’m lucky, go another round with Charlotte. Though in my current condition, getting it up and having enough energy to satisfy her is doubtful.
Bits and pieces of last night come to me in tiny slivers.
In one memory of Charlotte, she’s straddling me and removing my shirt, my face smashed between her tits. I smile at the thought. At some point, she took off my pants and got in bed with me. I can’t remember anything past that.
The sight of Charlotte, comfortable and sleeping next to me, brings a smile to my face. Maybe I should wake her, but she looks far too peaceful to disturb the beautiful purring sound she’s making. For once, I don’t have the urge to creep out the door, pretending whatever occurred between us can’t happen again, because Charlotte isn’t the type of girl I’d fuck and forget.
Although I don’t recall us even having sex, just those small clips of Charlotte on top of me. I’d think that would stick out most in my mind. It usually does after a long night of drinking even if I can’t remember some of it, but lately, I seem to be having lots of nights where I get blackout drunk and forget. With Charlotte, I want to recall every second.
I prop myself up on my right elbow to lean over her and slip my hand beneath her tank top. I’m not at all surprised that her stomach is muscular, toned in all the right places. By the feel of it, she might even have better abs than mine. Despite her career-ending injury, she’s clearly kept up with her training regimen.
She backs up against my chest, and I move her hair out of her face and off her neck, allowing me access to plant soft kisses on her neck.
“Alex,” she whispers as I palm her left breast in my hand and continue to leave a trail of kisses on her skin.
