I search out the first available cab—they often trail the streets around here at this time of night for stragglers who don’t havethe wherewithal to pre order—and I don’t hesitate getting inside and giving the driver my address.
I’ve seen the Tiny Dancer in the club before, meaning it’s now a regular haunt that I can’t use anymore. There was something dangerously sexy about him that seemed to pull me in, but there was also the awful gut feeling that he was wrong somehow. Could’ve just been the drunk-vomit bubbling in my stomach, but I wasn’t willing and am not willing to take that risk.
The porch light is on next door, and as though he has a monitor that tells him when I’m getting home, he’s outside. Sitting on the old wooden Adirondack chair that could do with a lick of paint, Asshole is drinking something that looks suspiciously like whisky and glaring in my direction.
I pay the driver and get out, furrowing my brow when I see the headlights of another car down the street. It’s unusual because our little part of town tends to be quiet, peaceful, and doesn’t see a lot of traffic. Especially not at two o'clock in the morning.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Asshole is up out of his seat as the cab pulls away, storming toward me like he’s on a mission.
He gets in my face, gripping my chin and lifting my head to inspect my mouth, then he steps back and scans my body, pausing on my knee before resting his eyes back on my lips.
“You look like shit.” He steps back and downs the rest of whatever it is he’s drinking.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to go to bed.” I don’t even have it in me to argue with him properly tonight.
“Not until you tell me what happened.”
“And why the fuck is what I do have any of your business? Are we on Groundhog Day, destined to repeat the same dumb-as-fuck conversation over and over again?”
Okay, I suppose I can argue a little.
“You’re such a brat.” With a scowl that could kill all other scowls, he huffs like a toddler and stomps away into his house, slamming the door behind him.
Good riddance.
I check down the street and the headlights are gone, so it’s likely it was someone else coming home from a night out. Hope they had more fun than I did.
Tomorrow, I know my limbs are going to ache like a bitch after falling—being pushed—out of that car, and my head is going to try and rip me apart with a hangover from Hell. I know this because the nausea is climbing up my throat faster than I can walk to my door.
I won’t make it to my bathroom.
Quick decision…I rush over to the trashcans and lift the lid…or at least I try to. Fuck! Damn Tanner and his fucking fuck locks. Oh God, it’s too late…
The contents of my stomach eject rapidly, parts of my earlier sandwich flying from my mouth as I double over, using every ounce of my energy to not fall down and sleep right here.
It finally relents and I straighten up, realizing I’m not where I thought I was and these aren’t my trashcans.
Whoops?
Oh well, that’ll teach him to put stupid locks on the trash because my insides are now all over the top and dripping down the sides.
Ugh…I need to be sick again.
Same trashcan…same gross coming out of me.
If I just sit here for a few seconds to cool down…I’ll be fine. I’ll get up once the nausea passes and climb into bed. I can shower in the morning.
Yeah…
So comfortable…
Chapter Five
Tanner
Age 6
“What happened?” I can feel my face scrunching up in confusion as I stare at Sweet Bee’s scraped knees.
