I shrug the word off because I wish it were someone else calling me that name. Someone who just walked away from me, who didn’t even leave me a note or a text. Someone who acted as if he loved me, only to walk away without a single word.
Climbing into the passenger seat of the car, I clip the seat belt in place. I’m no longer tipsy. I feel stone-cold sober. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I watch as he walks around the front of the truck.
George jumps into the driver’s seat, and I turn toward him. He faces me, his eyes finding mine. I do something daring. Something I know I shouldn’t do. But I throw caution to the wind, because what the fuck does it matter?
“Let’s go, George.”
GOOSE
Moaning, I roll onto my back. I crack one eye open but pinch it back closed because it’s fucking bright in here. I didn’t close the blinds, and the sun is pouring into the room. It makes me feel instantly sick. I throw my arm over my eyes, hiding the sun from my vision.
I lie in bed, trying to keep as still as possible. Blocking the sun from my view and contemplating if I’m going to throw up or not. I’m not sure how long I stay there. It could be five minutes or an hour.
But when I eventually force myself to attempt to sit up, I groan at the way the room spins, and my stomach not just flips, but flops, and I wonder if I will be able to keep from puking. Shifting my legs over the side of the bed, I place my feet flat on the ground and grip the edge of the mattress as I attempt to focus on a single object.
Breathing in and out, I groan again, then grunt as I stand to my feet. I take one step, then another, my feet unstable, my movements less than fucking normal. It doesn’t matter. I need to get my ass down to the bar and get another drink.
If I don’t get some hair of the dog, I am going to puke everywhere and be knocked down for days. I don’t remember the last time I drank that much, but I can’t do it again. I also can’t attempt to get completely sober. It needs to be a slow and steady process.
Slow and fucking steady.
Stumbling and swaying, it takes me a while, but I eventually make my way to the bar. I don’t even try to sit on one of the stools. Instead, I hold on to the edge of the bar top for dear goddamn life.
“I need one beer, one shot, and a bottle of water,” I demand, my voice sounding gruff and almost foreign even to my own ears. The prospect behind the bar jerks his chin, then gets to work doing what I’ve demanded.
“Holy shit,” a voice hisses next to me.
I don’t move quickly, knowing if I do, I’ll throw up on whoever is standing beside me. Turning my head, I look over to see Piggy. I’m surprised he’s here. He usually doesn’t come down to the clubhouse when he’s on shift, and he’s very much on shift right now.
“I’m on my lunch break, but Lainey called me last night. She was concerned and wanted me to check on you.”
“Concerned?” I ask
He hums, his gaze sliding down to my feet, then back up to meet mine. “As she should be. Aside from you still being bruised the fuck up, you’re on a bender.”
“Okay…” I say, my single word trailing off. He flicks his gaze down to his own boots, then slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine.
“She went out with Cidney last night.”
My stomach flips, but not because of my hangover. Because of that. Cidney. I don’t bother responding to him. If I say something, it’ll make me look like the pussy I am. So I don’t say a word. In fact, the prospect sets a shot in front of me, and I take the moment to down it.
“And she went home with someone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CIDNEY
I’m notdrunk enough for this, mainly because I’m not drunk at all. George pulls up to the house. It’s a nice house, a really nice house. It’s newer, and he pulls through the circular drive to make it up to the garage. The single-story, full-brick home is probably the nicest place I’ve actually seen in person.
After he turns the engine off and closes the garage door, he doesn’t make a move to open the driver’s door. Instead, he turns toward me, his eyes finding mine. I know mine must show just how surprised and impressed I am, though I probably shouldn’t, considering George is a doctor.
“You good?” he asks.
He watches me, his expression laced with concern. I should tell him that I am indeed not good and to please take me home. I don’t, though. I don’t say anything. I’m so hurt, so incredibly hurt, that I throw myself at this man.
Reaching out across the center console, I cup his cheeks with my palms, then shift forward and touch my mouth to his. “This is only for tonight,” I murmur against his lips.
“Only tonight,” he agrees, repeating my words. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll drive you home. Monday morning, I’ll see you at work.”
