"Come for me again," he demands her—me.
As she does what he says, I envy myself and the fact she gets to fuck Harley Wingrove and I haven’t even come close to doing anything of the sort.
Scurrying out of the office, I slam the door behind me—
Jolting awake, I’m drowning in sweat as my hands grip onto the blanket to steady myself, underwear completely soaked.
What the fuck was that?
eighteen
Cassandra Age 16
My phone buzzing nextto me is one way to wake me up, but the sound of my dad’s fists banging on the door?
That’s something else entirely.
Pair those two together with my first ever hangover, and you have yourself a recipe for disaster.
My father, Hank, has always been a loud man. He never really does anything peacefully. He even yawns and sneezes so loudly, I’m convinced the entire neighborhood knows when he’s tired or sick.
"Get up," his angry voice roars from behind my door, while his fist continues to shake the four walls that hold my bedroom together. For how much longer, I’m not sure.
Clearly, the word has spread that I have my very first hangover, and old man Hank has no sympathy for me. He’s obviously and understandably pissed that his sixteen-year-old daughter, and role model to his two youngest daughters, got drunk out of her mind last night.
If he didn’t already have a full head of grey hair, he definitely would now.
"I’m up," I groan, just loud enough for him to hear me, hoping it’s enough to make the banging stop.
Please let the banging stop.
My head feels like there’s a bowling ball rolling around inside it, crashing into my skull with every move I make.
Dragging one leg over the side of my bed at a time, I slide each foot into my slippers before lugging my heavy body into my bathroom.
I put it off as long as possible, because I know the sight of the toilet is going to make me be sick, but I can smell the alcohol seeping through my pores.
A shower is a must.
"Having. Shower," I try to shout, but my voice screeches like nails on a chalkboard. Putting full sentences together is painful and nearly impossible, but I do the best I can.
Reaching for my phone before I stand up from my bed, I see five missed calls from Bea and a text message from Harley reading, "I hope you’re feeling okay."
Smiling through the aches surging through my body, I call Bea back quietly, so the caveman outside my door can’t hear me.
"Cass!" she says with a shout, and I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear. Her voice is so fucking loud.
"What do you need?" I hiss.
"Did you have a good night last night?" she asks.
Racking my brain, I try to remember anything at all, but I come up short. Aside from the car ride there with Austin and Harley, where Harley and I wore basically the same outfit, everything else is blank.
That particular memory makes my heart smile and my stomach flutter.
Or am I just nauseous?
"I remember nothing, apart from getting there."
