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52
Willow
“Who’s shouting?” I slur, eyes closed. Still in the between land where I dreamed of a battleground, I slink over the side of the bed. The bright, natural light from the sun sifting through the pine trees outside kicks my ass.
“Willow?”
“Stop shouting.” I clutch at the glossy floor, stomach tied into knots.
With tunnel vision, I crawl my way toward the bathroom. Camdyn’s pulling me up. He’s in pajama pants—no shirt. His hot, smooth skin abates my agony until he speaks.
“Lo, do you remember last—”
“Stop shouting. Let me go,” I grit. Bile scorches up my throat. I punch at him, attempting to spare him from a vomit shower and me the humiliation of dispensing said vomit shower.
“Oh, god!” I plaster a hand over my mouth, attempting to stop the hot liquid expelling from my lips.
“Mmkay . . . That was the opposite of refreshing.” Camdyn deposits me into the claw foot bathtub, vomit all over the both of us.
“I’m so . . .” An apology clogs my throat, and I toss up more purple liquid. “It’s not—hack—chunks—hack—only fluid.” Lolo, you’re so stupid.
Chuckling to himself, Camdyn climbs into the bathtub and switches on the spouts.
I groan, “Cam-loud, stop.”
Arrogance cocks the edges of his mouth upward. “Of course, and I’m shouting, huh?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You should listen to your boyfriend, not Stubby. Stubby did this to you. And you did this to me,” he retorts, gesturing to the glossy film over his abdominals.
Kill me now.I threw up on him! Ugh, the stench.
With his thick mouth corked, Camdyn gingerly pushes the heavy wet tee, which weighs a thousand pounds, over my stomach and shoulders. Camdyn twirls a dreadlock in his fingers. I swear he derives pleasure in continuing to facilitate our pointless conversation. “Last night, you and Stubby polished off two MDs, Willow.”
My eyes peel open as I step out of my tights with Camdyn’s assistance. “We did?”
“Yup. Started with a blue one. Finished with a red one. Wanna know what else happened?”
“No,” I murmur as he kicks out of his soaked pants, abdomen flexing deliciously.
“I bought you chicken nuggets from McDonald’s.”
Groaning, I push at his chest. “You aren’t my favorite sin anymore. I’ve decided I no longer like muscular guys with pretty boy face—”
“The fuck. That’s an insult.” He runs a hand over a corked smile then offers an ominous snarl. “This ain’t a pretty face.”
“Whatever. Cam, I’m in love with Jimmy. How dare you feed me McDonald’s.”
“If it’s any consolation, Jimmy John’s was too far.” Hot water cascades deliciously over his chest and abdominals, every single place my tongue begs to go. His arms loop around me, and I’m guided beneath the showerhead. While stroking a loc, he asks, “Do you recall the note inside of the nuggets?”
I shake my head.
“Of course, you don’t.” Camdyn grabs a bar of soap. “Inside the chicken nugget container was a note. I asked you to prom. You said, ‘yes,’ Willow.”
I pout. “That’s because I was too drunk to talk shit.”
“Nah. You talked shit. You claimed to be free, and, unless a guy named Jimmy or John asked, you’d go with me. You laughed for about ten minutes. Tatum too.”
