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Yet, still, even like this, the woman does crazy things to my body. Involuntary things. Indeed, at the mere sight of Laila’s raggedy ass shuffling into the kitchen, my entire body instantly perks up. My heart rate elevates. My skin tingles. Even the memory of Laila barfing at the end of our tryst doesn’t dampen my body’s attraction to her. Apparently, I’m an addict now. Addicted to a drug called Laila. And there’s no turning back.
Weirdly, I didn’t really mind the barfing part. Not that I have some kind of weird barfing kink. Obviously, I would have preferred that part didn’t happen and thought it was totally gross. But I can’t deny when it happened, and I held back her hair, so it wouldn’t dip into the toilet bowl, when she whimpered pathetically in gratitude at my gentle touch, my heart kind of skipped a beat. I already knew I was attracted to Sassy Laila. To Bitchy Laila. And, of course, to Sexy, Squirting, Screaming From Ecstasy Laila. But in that moment, I discovered I kinda dig Broken, Pathetic, Needs Me to Hold Her Hair While She Barfs and Act Like Her Knight in Shining Armor Laila, too. I mean, not too often, please. But now and again, sure. It turns out, I’m down to volunteer as tribute for that job, occasionally.
When Laila was done being sick, I helped her wash up, led her to the bed, tucked her in, and held her close while she whimpered and groaned. When she swore she was going to die, I stroked her hair and kissed her cheek and assured her she wouldn’t. And, to my surprise, in between telling me to fuck off and to stop correcting her, she actually snuggled me, thanked me for taking care of her, and whispered my name like it was a little prayer. And the best part? She didn’t steal my wallet or take a single surreptitious photo of me and post it on Twitter.
But that was then, and this is now. When I woke up this morning, Laila wasn’t there. And when I went to her room and peeked inside, there she was. Fast asleep. Looking like road kill. And, instantly, I knew why she’d left my bedroom and staggered back to hers. Because a drunken tryst in the middle of the night with an asshole like me is one thing, according to Laila’s Rulebook. But waking up in the morning, and seeing me lying next to her in the light of day, is something else entirely. Right then, I knew we might as well have been back on tour. That she’d drunkenly fucked me in the middle of the night, the same way she’d done on the night of the hot tub. And that now, she was going to pretend it had never happened, the same way she did back then.
Laila croaks out a pathetic “good morning” to the small group at Reed’s kitchen table as she enters the room. Along with Aloha and me, the “second wave” of people eating breakfast this morning is comprised of Aloha’s husband, Zander, Fish and Alessandra, and Reed’s fiancée, Georgina. And of course, as the group eats, Amalia is puttering away adorably on the other side of the kitchen.
Moving like molasses, Laila grabs some coffee and a muffin from a breakfast spread on the counter and then takes a seat next to me at the table.
“You look pretty,” I say sarcastically. “Like a Picasso.”
“Shut up,” she murmurs before laying her forehead onto the table.
“And they were stupid enough to hire you to be my babysitter?” I say to her lowered head. “Pfft. I want a discount.”
Laila flips me off without lifting her head.
“Thank God there’s a professional hair and makeup person here today, eh?” I say. “Hopefully, she’s a good one. She’s got her work cut out for her with you.”
“Please, shut up,” she murmurs into the table. “I’m trying to die over here. Which is okay, I’ve decided. I’ve had a good run. Tell my mother and sister I love them.”
Aloha addresses her husband. “Babe, will you make Laila one of your hangover miracle smoothies?”
“You bet.”
Georgina offers to assist Zander, saying she was a bartender in college, and he cheerily accepts her help.
As Zander and Georgina begin whipping up the concoction, Aloha’s phone rings, and she heads off to take her call, which prompts Fish and Alessandra to head out of the kitchen, too, hand in hand. And, suddenly, Laila and I are sitting alone at the table, side by side.
“I’m gonna die,” she murmurs.
I rub her back. “You’re not gonna die.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
I laugh.
“Have you taken some Ibuprofen, Laila?” Amalia asks from across the kitchen.
“No, ma’am. I couldn’t find any.”
“Poor baby. I’ll get you some.”
“Thank you, Amalia,” Laila croaks out.
“You’re the best, Abu Dabu,” I call to Amalia as she leaves, prompting Laila to turn her head, placing her cheek flush onto the table with her eyebrows furrowed, and say, “Abu Dabu?”
