AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The sound of my name being called cuts through the ruckus of the club, and I glance over my shoulder to find Owen pushing through the crowd towards me. When he reaches me, his hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes, eyes soft with sympathy. “You okay?”
I nod, already pulling out my phone with the intention of calling a cab to get the hell out of here, bypassing the unopened messages from Jackson because fuck me, those girls got in my head something good.
Owen's hand covers the screen. “Wanna go somewhere?” When I hit him an ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ look, he clarifies, “I'm not hitting on you. I just don't wanna go home yet. Empty house blues.”
Another one of the reasons me and Owen’s arrangement has always worked so well, how we always maintained a friendship; we never have liked being alone.
Still, I hesitate.
Sensing my trepidation, Owen nudges me gently. “We've been friends longer than we've been fucking, Lu. I promise I won't try anything.”
The hopeful look in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings, and I feel my willpower wilt. “Fine. One drink.”
I should've known better.
* * *
God, when will I ever learn that one drink is never really just one drink?
One vodka cranberry turns into two, and that turns into three, and then a two-for-one deal on cocktails enters the mix so, naturally, I have a couple of those. I'm not sure when the shots start, and I sure as fuck have no clue how many I consume. I only remember them burning something fierce on the way down.
And on the way back up.
Owen isn’t far behind me on the drunk scale, matching me drink for drink like the competitive son of a bitch he is. We egg each other on, try to one-up each other, and it’s fun, for a while. We’re having fun. Good ol’ friendly fun.
Until we aren’t.
I forgot that the main flaw in Owen and I drinking together isn't that we might accidentally fall into bed together; it's that we never know when to shut up.
Which is how, less than two hours after I committed to one, singular, innocent drink, I’m hunched in a rickety plastic chair in the emergency room waiting for Owen to get his possibly-broken hand x-rayed.
It was my fault, really. I was the one who spent twenty minutes vomiting up my fucking soul before my equally plastered friend dragged me out of a club bathroom. Unfortunately, I think I could consume all the alcohol in the world and still, the mouthy bitch in me wouldn’t shut up; she was certainly alive when some dickhead tried to steal our cab.
The specifics are a little blurry but I think the phrases 'cock-sucker' and 'shrimp dick little bitch' might have been used. Whatever I said, it was enough to catch the guy's attention. It all kicked off after that, and before I knew it, I was the one helping Owen into a taxi while he cradled his poor, deformed hand.
Even after all that, I'm still too drunk. My head is spinning, my stomach is rolling, and I swear I can feel the alcohol burning a hole in my liver. Even that antiseptic hospital smell can't cover up the stench of vodka seeping from my pores.
“One drink,” I mutter as I slump over in my seat, shaking my head at my own naivety. “Dipshit.”
“Talking to yourself, sweetheart?”
Oh, do I hate the hope that flutters in my chest before I recognize Owen’s voice.
“Don’t call me that,” I warn the man ambling toward me, looking just as decrepit and drained as I feel. I cringe at the cast encasing his hand. “Broken?” His sullen nod evokes a wave of guilt. “I'm so sorry.”
His not-bandaged hand socks me gently on the shoulder. “Shut up. You didn't break my hand.”
I started the fight though, didn't I? Could've kept my fat mouth shut and just let the little bastard take our taxi. But nope. Drunk Luna is just as foolish as Sober Luna. I'm too tired to argue though, so with a resigned sigh, I shakily get to my feet.
Immediately, I regret it. Letting out a groan, one hand goes to my throbbing forehead while the other settles on my churning stomach.
Concern lighting up his face for the second time tonight, Eoin cups my elbow, steadying me. “You okay?”
He is literally broken yet he’s asking if I’m okay. I'd laugh if I didn't think it would make me projectile vomit. All I manage is a grunted yes. “Just dizzy.”
“You don't look so good.”
“Gee, thanks.”
