Across the street, I saw Rikker emerge from Capri’s. He walked quickly up the sidewalk in front of me, as if in a terrible hurry. A second later, I saw why. A girl came flying out too, tapping quickly in her heels to catch up. She hauled herself toward him, calling out to him. I was too far away (or too drunk) to make out what they were saying. But I didn’t need to hear the conversation to understand. She was performing a pantomime entitled: Take Me Home Tonight. And Rikker was doing his best “no thank you.”
Pure comedy.
They drifted closer to me, Rikker removing her hands from his ass as politely as possible. I laughed aloud then. And Rikker turned toward the sound, startled. “You’re not his type,” I slurred. “Never will be.”
The girl’s eyes popped wide. She was drunk, too. But nowhere near as drunk as I was. And now she was offended, too.
Whoops.
“I mean, girls aren’t his type,” I clarified.
She looked at Rikker, and then back at me. And then at Rikker again. “So you weren’t kidding about that.”
Rikker just sighed, looking irritated at both of us.
“He can pass for straight, can’t he?” I laughed. “Some guys hide it well.” Like me, for example. Not that it was easy. Lately I spent all my waking hours just trying to keep the cracks in my deflector shields from splitting apart.
“I’m outie,” the girl said. She’d had enough of Rikker’s rejection, and enough of my drunk philosophizing. Crossing her arms, she spun on her heel and walked away.
“Go home, Graham,” Rikker said. He looked ready to do the same.
“You first.” All the laughing I’d done had made me dizzy. I needed another little rest before I could make it to Beaumont.
With a furrowed brow, Rikker turned toward the dorms. He walked a couple of paces and then stopped. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yap,” I said. Because my mouth couldn’t decide between “yeah” and “yup.” That happened sometimes, especially after I drank a shit-ton of whiskey and a pitcher of beer.
He pointed up the street. “Prove it.”
So I went. Or at least I tried. But my feet weren’t in the mood, really. I tripped on the curb. Rikker’s hand was at my elbow immediately, which kept me from pitching forward onto the asphalt. “Aw, crap,” I said as I swayed.
He smirked in that patient way that people look at a drunk. But even that was enough of a smile to stir me. Since my defenses were for shit right then, I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth. I’d tasted that mouth so many times, and it had always left me wanting more.Every. Fricking. Time. Just remembering it filled my head with ideas. Bad ones. The playful curve of his lips… I was leaning towards them even now.
“Whoa,” Rikker said, easing me by the arm down to sit on the curb.
Crap. I almost made an ass of myself. No — I was making an ass of myself right now. I’d almost made abiggerass of myself a minute ago. “What are you doing?” I asked him next. Because he had his phone in his hands and was tapping on the screen.
“Calling Bella.”
“Not Bella,” I said immediately. “Anyone but Bella. She’ll want to talk about myaddiction.Thing is, she’s got it wrong. It isn’t the whiskey that’s making me crazy.” God, I could not shut up. In fact, I kept right on babbling about my problems. I rambled about Thanksgiving. I don’t even know all the shit I said to him. The only saving grace was that Rikker seemed to tune me out.
“Yeah, Bella? Hey! I’m just outside, and I think Graham needs a little help. Yup. Pretty sloppy. He keeps mumbling about tight pants, or something.” He looked at me, frowning. “Sitting on the curb,” he said into the phone. “You can’t miss us.”
“Turned me in to the cops?” I asked when he’d hung up. “Nice of you.”
“You’d rather I leave you in the gutter?” he jammed his phone into his pocket.
“I left you in the gutter.” Damn, that just popped out. “Oops,” I said. “Forgot our deal. Sorry. S’posed to not talk about that. Shit stays buried, you know? Easier that way…”
“Shut it, Graham,” Rikker said, exasperated.
I looked up to see Bella and Hartley jogging towards us. “Thanks,” Hartley said, relieving Rikker, as if I were a package that he’d signed for.
Bella leaned down, her face in my face. “You smell like Jack,” she said.
“Schmart girl,” I slurred.
“Best of luck, and goodnight,” Rikker grunted.
