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I grin widely at Brent as he takes my hand back in his, and he guides me up the three stairs into his apartment building. The building is old, at least fifty years old.
I glance up and see a sign for the elevator that reads, Out of Service. My mouth hangs open.
Oh, please let him live on the first floor.
“Just up one flight of stairs,” Brent says, grinning.
I nod, and we slowly make our way up the stairs. Brent’s hand never leaves mine. It’s nice to have a man’s hand holding mine, keeping me safe.
We barely make it into his apartment before his lips crush against mine again. His shirt along with his shoes are off in seconds. I try my best to keep up as I flick off my own shoes, but I can’t balance on one foot. I fall, but I am surprised when something soft breaks my fall—a couch. I’ve fallen over the side of the couch. I quickly remove my shoes before I feel Brent move on top of me, pressing me further into the couch.
As he kisses me, I keep my eyes, trying to take in my surroundings, but it’s dark, too dark to see anything. When his lips find the spot sensitive spot on my neck, I let all thoughts go as I moan with pleasure.
“You”—he kisses my chest—“are”—his kisses trail lower to my breasts—“the”—his mouth grabs at the fabric, pulling it down and exposing my bare breasts, and he sucks in a breath at the sight—“most beautiful woman.”
I innocently bite my lip as I stare up at him, waiting to see what he will do. I don’t know how to respond to his nice words, so I don’t. I let my hard nipples do the talking for me. I want him.
His eyes never leave mine as his mouth descends slowly until it is just an inch from my throbbing nipple. He’s asking permission, I finally realize, as he hovers over me but doesn’t touch. I arch my back just slightly, so my nipple presses against his lips. I close my eyes as his lips softly kiss my nipple before his tongue tastes and flicks over the hard peak.
I moan softly. I feel the desire for more forming in my belly. Right now, I will let this man do anything to my body. I want more. I need more. I want to feel good and forget about everything else.
His lips move to my other breast as his body shifts on top of me. His erection presses harder into my stomach. When I feel it, instead of the pleasure I expected, I feel pain. I feel liquid forming in my stomach, needing to come out. I feel it rising quickly in my chest.
“Sick,” I say as I push at Brent’s chest to get him off of me.
He quickly moves with a shocked expression on his face. I run from the room as the liquid threatens at my throat.
I run down the dark hallway, but Brent hasn’t offered directions of where a bathroom might be. I open the first door. I fumble at the wall, trying to find a light switch. When I find it, lights brighten the room, but it’s not a bathroom. It’s a guy’s messy bedroom.
God, please let Brent have a messy roommate. I’m not sure I could have sex with someone who lives so messily.
I quickly close the door and try the next one. I hit the light switch on the first try this time and am pleased to see that it’s a bathroom—the most disgusting bathroom I think I’ve ever seen. Dirty towels and clothes line the floor. There is an array of toiletries covering the counter. The toilet seat is already up, exposing a pee-stained toilet, but I don’t have time to find a different bathroom. I run to the toilet just as the contents of my stomach make their way back up.
I vomit again and again until I’m sure every drop of alcohol has come back up.
“I’m never drinking again,” I mumble to myself as I collapse back against the wall while my stomach tries to settle itself.
I sit on the floor for several seconds, unable to move. I hear a door creak, and I expect to see Brent running in to check on me, but he never comes. Throwing up in a guy’s apartment isn’t like the movies. No one held my hair back and cleaned me up when I was done. I’m on my own.
I walk slowly back to the living room to see if Brent will call me a cab. When I walk in, I see him passed out on the couch. I look back down the hallway, hoping to see his roommate who caused the door to creak. But I don’t see anyone, and I’m not going to go searching for him. I find my clutch lying on the floor, next to the couch. I open it, but my phone isn’t in there. Scarlett kept it.
I could wake up Brent, but I choose not to. Instead, I curl up on the love seat and go to sleep. It’s the only thing my body can manage after a night like this. I don’t think about Brent. I don’t think about how Scarlett got me into this mess. I don’t think about how I’m supposed to call my father. I just sleep.
“Hey, you need to wake up,” a man says as he tries to shake me awake.
I stir slowly, sure that it is a dream since I don’t recognize the voice.
“Wake up,” the same voice says again.
I open my eyes and find the prettiest shade of blue twinkling back at me. I smile. I can’t help it. Whoever this person is can’t be bad. I try to sit up, but I am immediately attacked with symptoms—headache, nausea, and dizziness. I close my eyes and lie back down. I try to remember what happened.
Alcohol, lots of alcohol—that’s what happened.
I open my eyes and sit up more slowly this time. Brent is no longer standing over me. He has moved to the kitchen and is pouring a glass of water. My mouth begins watering at the sight. I watch as he drinks down the glass instead of offering me a drink.
I sigh. What did I expect from a man who passed out rather than making sure I was still alive and breathing after I’d run to his bathroom?
“I figured you would be gone by now,” he says.
