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“Why?”
“You’re Micah Peters,” she said, as if that were reason enough. “I’ve watched you play. You’re like so amazing and the hottest guy at school.”
I was a hot mess, but this girl wasn’t interested in my mental state. She took the beer from me and placed her mouth over the tip, sucking back a long drink. She licked her lips when she handed it back. Message clear.
If only she didn’t have those curls that made me think too damn much.
“Come on,” she urged. “Let’s get out of here.”
It was a bad idea. But lately my life has been one bad idea after another. Why change the pattern? I filched a case of beer and we snuck out the back door deciding to walk to my on-campus apartment because it was closer than her residence. Besides, she had roommates and a strict dorm mom, I didn’t have either.
She wasn’t much of a drinker, but I got shit-faced and stopped noticing her curls. By the time she put her hand on the zipper of my jeans, I didn’t notice anything except her willing body and my hard-on.
She wrapped those legs from Hell around me and I pushed up her shirt to feel her tits. After that we must have fucked. It’s a blurred memory, but the proof is in the used condom on the floor. Even when I’m drunk I don’t break that rule. I’d only ever withher. Bare inside of Dee, that had been pure Heaven.
The thumping on my door comes again. “Micah Anthony! I know you’re in there. Open up!”
“Who’s that?” she asks, reminding me that she’s still here.
Shame slaps at me as I fasten my jeans and look over at the girl buttoning up her shirt. There was only one exit route: through the front door. Unless I make her climb out the three-story window. I’m not that much of an asshole yet, though I’m working on it.
Why the hell should I care if Cayo Torres finds a girl in my room? I’m nearly nineteen. Single. His daughter bailed on me. I’m free to screw whomever I want. I walk to the door then remember the condom. I turn back to throw it in the toilet and flush the bowl. Who was I kidding? There’s no one whose opinion of me matters more than his. No man I respect more or want to be like. But I’ve failed on that score time and time again.
Damn, I wish this girl with her tangled hair and crusted mascara didn’t look like she just crawled out of my bed. Or that I didn’t look like I’d been drinking for the last five days straight.
My mouth tastes like I have paste for spit and my head is still a punching bag, but I’m stone cold sober and scared as shit when I open the door. Papa T is six inches shorter than me, and I probably outweigh him by over fifty pounds, yet he’s a giant of a man in every way that counts.
His eyebrows shoot up and he doesn’t mince words. “You look like crap and smell like a brewery.”
“Uh…I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I can see that.” He steps into my studio apartment.
I picture it through his eyes and cringe. Piles of dirty clothes, empty liquor and beer bottles, the rumpled bed, the girl with the curls. I’m sure he doesn’t miss that detail and figures she’s some kind of substitute.
“Who’s your friend?”
I don’t even remember her name, which is pretty low of me. When seconds pass without my answer, Papa T shakes his head and I feel his disappointment down to my bones.
“I’m Phoebe.” Christ, it even rhymes with Dee. She grabs her shoes, looking embarrassed. “It’s…um…nice to meet you, Mr. Peters.”
He doesn’t correct her. “Nice to meet you too, Phoebe.”
“Bye, Mick.”
“Yeah, bye.” I know I should say more. She’s probably expecting it. But what is there to say? I’ll call you, when I know I won’t.
“You’ve really gotten yourself into a jam, son,” he says, closing the door.
There’s no place clear of dirty clothes to sit except the bed of shame, so I choose the floor, pressing my back against the wall.
Papa T takes a seat next to me. I bring my knees to my chest and rest my chin on top. “Are you being safe…responsible?”
I nod, unable to meet his eyes.
“Rita and Victor have been worried about you,” he says gently rather than scolding. “We know it’s been hard, struggling with your loss. We thought you needed time to heal, but you’re not doing that. You’re keeping it all inside. You don’t return our calls. We haven’t seen you in months.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “We’re concerned, Mick. And now I see we have every reason to be. Drinking and sleeping with girls you don’t even know the names of isn’t going to make you feel better.”
I clench my hands, fighting the urge to ram a fist through the wall. “This is all I know how to do. I’m just likehim.”
