And that’s when I lose all pretense. Laying back with my legs in the air, my knees still trapped in the leather, I laugh hard and uncontrollably. I can feel Eric's eyes on me, his expression concerned, probably wondering what drugs I've taken.
“Oh, God. I think I needed that.” I wipe the tears from my eyes. All the tension and stress has left my body. I feel loose and relaxed.
“You needed to die?” Eric’s head is now tilted to the side in confusion. I must do something to fix his handsome face.
Mustering my trademark power-ballad caterwaul, I launch into that awful Bryan Adams dirge, drawing out every damn note till the bitter end.“Yes, Dimples. I died foryou.So now everything you do should be one hundred percent done forme, you bastard.”
I can tell by his expression how much he appreciates my dulcet tones. He’s in awe of me. I should have tried out for American Idol; I’d totally win.
“What the fuck is happening right now?” He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He loves me. I know he does.
I can smell it.
“You can smell what? Jordan, have you taken something? Should we go to the emergency room?”
Fuck. I must have said that out loud. I really need to stop doing shit like this.
“Nope, no need for that. You can turn that frown upside down, Mister. We are going on a date.” With great effort, I grip onto the couch and heave myself back to my feet, then waddle to the front door—pants be damned.
CHAPTER 19
Eric
My jaw hits the fucking floor as I watch my boyfriend walk—and I use that word loosely—across the living room with his little white ass on full display. Framed by a satin jock, the sight of it makes my brain malfunction for a second before it comes back online. When I surge forward to stop Jordan from stepping outside with his leather pants around his thighs, he has the absolute audacity to look up at me and press his half-dressed self against my body.
“Ooh, does this mean you would rather stay home?” he purrs.
He probably thinks the way he is squinting and wiggling his eyebrows at me is sexy. When in reality, I’m biting hard on the flesh of my cheeks to stifle a laugh. Prying his hands off my shirt buttons, I grip them both in one fist and nudge his chin upwards to make sure I have his undivided attention.
“Yes, we are staying home, but not for that.” I give in and laugh when he exaggerates a pout. “Why don’t we get you into some more comfortable clothes?” I’m still clutching onto his wandering hands. Apparently, Jordan has lost his ability to understand English—along with his damn mind. Why would he drink so much? Was he really that nervous about a date with me? Grazing the pad of my thumb along his jaw, I lean down and brush my lips against his. Pulling back, I use his hands to guide him toward his bedroom. I pause in the doorway, taking in the carnage of his bedroom.
“Did a bomb go off in your closet?” Stepping over a small pile of shirts, I swipe some pants off the bed. Then, I set Jordan down on the mattress, only for him to flop back like he plans to make snow angels. Turning away to hide my smile, I start to roll up my sleeves so I can tackle the first pile of clothes. I have no idea what he has planned for them, but the least I can do is fold them for him. I have a feeling he is going to have many regrets in the morning.
A groan from behind me has me turning around just in time to see Jordan bolting up on the bed, then making a dash for the ensuite. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that whatever he drank is making a reappearance. Deciding it's probably best to give him a few minutes, I head to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water. I knock lightly on the bathroom door, waiting for his answering groan before entering.
The sight of Jordan, my Lashes, laying slumped over the bowl with his head resting on his forearm makes my caregiver instincts roar to life. Lowering myself to the tiled floor, I pull Jordan back to rest against my chest while encouraging him to sip slowly on the cold water.
“I’m stuck in my pants.” Jordan’s bark of laughter takes me by surprise.
“Yeah, Lashes. You are.” I chuckle against his hair.
“Still hot, though, right?” Surprisingly, he sounds more sober than he did in the living room. I watch closely as he finally starts to push the tight leather pants off his thighs, kicking them across the bathroom.
“Well, you did throw up. I’m not sure even you could make that look hot.”
He spins around to give me a scathing look, and I quickly raise my hands in surrender.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You have never looked hotter. Well, maybe when you were ass up in the living room pretending to be dead. That really got my motor running.” I wink at him, helping him back to his feet and over to the sink to brush his teeth. Even after all my jokes, I really do have to force my eyes away from his creamy cheeks in that satin jock.
Figuring he might need some privacy and seeing that he is now much steadier on his feet, I head back into the bedroom and resume folding the random piles of discarded clothes. The mess in this room, combined with the copious amount of vodka he drank, is leading me to believe my Lashes was seriously nervous about our date. It stings a little that he was this uncomfortable with the whole idea. Something tells me not to take this personally, though. This is aJordanissue and me making this about my feelings is counterproductive. As would be making a big deal out of his drunk ass. I will save that for another time; there is no way I am letting him live down that impromptu performance in the living room.
Sitting at the edge of the bed with piles of folded clothes either side of me, I look up to see Jordan watching me from the doorway. He’s casually leaning against the frame watching me with a strange curiosity. He must have grabbed a pair of sweatpants from one of the doom piles to cover himself up. Not that I would complain if he wants to walk around all night in his jock.
“Why are you folding my clothes, Dimples?” he asks.
“I think the better question is, why aren’t you helping me fold your clothes?” I mimic his action and nod toward the space I have cleared on the bed beside me. “Come on, chop chop!”
I smirk at him as he rolls his eyes in mock frustration. He drops heavily onto the bed beside me, picking up a shirt and starting to fold. I can see the tension in his body. His shoulders are almost up to his ears, which are pink at the tips from embarrassment. Knowing Jordan, he will avoid a conversation about tonight at all cost. So, rather than add to his misery, I figure it's best to ignore the elephant in the room for a little longer.
