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What the fuck?He’s got Billie. He has no right to question me.
He starts to tap on my phone. “I’m texting Kara.” More tapping. “I’m fine. Tell Greg it was nice to see him.” He looks back at me, his expression unreadable. “How’s that?”
My stomach churns a response. I’m ready to get into it with him about Billie and Greg, but I don’t have it in me.
“Shower. Now.” He tosses my phone on the bed and herds me into the door where the water sounds are coming from.
Stumbling, I grab the doorjamb for support and stub my toe on the baseboard. “F—” I bite the word back. I promised myself that I was going to make a New Year’s resolution—several, actually—but one was to quit using the eff word so much. I hope tonight’s no indicator, because I’m not going to be able to keep that very easily.
“How much did you drink anyway?”
“Jäger.” That’s all I can say, because basically, I don’t remember. Who the hell would?
The bathroom’s tiny. Just a stand-up shower encased in glass, a sink, and a toilet. And the glass isn’t even the kind that has patterns on it. No etching, no scratching, nothing that will hide my naked self from his sight. He’ll have to leave the bathroom. That’s all there is to it. I’m not going to fumble around in a shower, naked and drunk, in front of him.
Josh tugs on my top. “Raise your hands.”
“Wha—no. No, Josh.”
“Well, you aren’t sleeping in my bed with those clothes on.” Another tug. “So, up. Up. Now.”
Sleeping in his bed? Who said that I was sleeping in his bed? “And where’s Billie sleeping?”Wow. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.And I’m not sleeping in his bed. The alcohol in my system is dissipating, I can tell. Because I think I’m starting to think rationally. Maybe.
“Who cares? Now raise them, or do I slice the top off you?”
He’s digging in his jeans, like he’s going to take out a pocketknife. Would he do that? Slice my top off me?
“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands.
He pulls my shirt over my head. I’m in my bra and skirt, hands hanging useless at my side, nasty taste in my mouth, and I probably resemble a street urchin from another time. And if my mascara’s streaked, I may even look like a chimney sweep.
He folds his arms over his chest, stares at me. I fight the urge to put my hands over my chest and hide my lacy bra. And yet, at the same time…
One incontrovertible truth hits me. I need Josh like I need the very air I breathe. Knowing this and yet admitting it to myself in this moment are two different things.
“Well?” His dark gaze moves over me, from my face to my black heels.
I shrug. What? Well, what? I shake my head. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.
“The skirt,” he answers the unanswered question.
“I’ll strip after your go. I got this.”
“Sure you do.” He cocks his head, like he’s not quite believing me.
“Really, watch.” To prove my point, I raise one foot up and gingerly take the heel off. “See?” I set my foot down.
Except my foot doesn’t quite land right. I’d like to blame the flooring, but I know better.
I collapse, my ankle twisting in the shoe that’s still on, my hand smacking the glass of the shower, while my knee hits the commode.
The wail that comes out of my mouth is more like a cat in heat. I slap my hand over my lips to silence myself.
He grabs my arm, pulls me close. His chest is shaking. I look up at his face. He’s trying to hide his laughter.
“It’s not funny,” I snarl at him.
“Of course not.” He stabilizes me, reaches down, and takes my other shoe off my foot while I’m holding onto his back, so I don’t fall. His hair’s falling, a long, gleaming black sheet. I’m mesmerized by it. I touch it with my fingertip, letting my hand trail through it.
