“Damn, can you not? Too loud.”
There’s a trail of slobber on Ace’s skin and hangovers are so tough that they overpower the other feelings I should have, like embarrassment and confusion, because I couldn’t even remember how I ended up on top of him.
I swat a hand on my head, but there’s nothing there except my frizzy braids. I glance down and catch a whiff of Ace’s scent because I’m in his Gallery Dept. t-shirt instead of Marcus’ old jersey.
I strain my neck to get a glimpse of Marcus’ shadow lurking under my bedroom door, but there’s nothing. The AC kicks on and the hum from the unit outside my bedroom window is like a punch to my throbbing temples.
“This got to be what death feels like,” I mutter, swiping a hand across the slobber on his chest.
“It ain’t.”
“Is this how you feel after you drink?”
“Not anymore.” He reaches over to my nightstand, picking up two pills and a glass of water while I hold on to his biceps. “Here.”
“You not thirsty?”
“Nope, and you not slick.” He pushes the cup against my lips. “Open your mouth.”
Taking a sip from a cup that his lips hadn’t touched first is as bad as the sledgehammer to my head and my frost bitten toes. The water is warm and bland.
He stares at me through heavy eyes like he wants to make sure I’m swallowing every single drop. When he decides I had enough, he yanks it back and pushes the pills toward my lips.
I open my mouth wide enough for him to stick them on my tongue and then I wait while he stares at me like he’s trying to decide something. It’s a Pavlov moment because I know I should close my mouth, but I’m left there like an idiot with Tylenol on my tongue and Ace squinting at me.
“Hm.” He pushes the glass back toward my mouth.
After I swallow the pills, I open my mouth right back up. “Di—did something happen last night?”
He blinks so slow that it makes my gurgling stomach twist. “Yeah. You went to Splashtown.”
“And?”
“And Bryson let you drink and let you wander off by yourself.”
I turn my neck, looking for my phone, but it’s across the room on top of the backpack I swore I left by the front door.
“Yeah, you left that at home, and no, he didn’t text or call. I checked.”
“Oh.”
There’s something he isn’t saying and I think it might be worse than the fact Bryson didn’t take care of me like he should’ve—as if anything could’ve been worse than that.
“Did something else happen?” I mutter.
“Yeah...you kissed me.”
“I—I kissed you?”
“Mhmm...in a nasty ass bathroom stall because you had me driving across the city to pick your ass up.”
“Oh, fuck.” I bury my face in my hands and wait on the regret to come out of his mouth for real this time, but I hear the pounding thunks from the headache rocking my skull instead.
This is as bad as theothertrail of wetness I left on him after a night of Janet and tuna tartare.
“I didn’t mean to do that.”
Now I sound like the regretful one. I can’t even remember how good he tasted.
