Page 77 of Convincing the Catcher

Haven refills our glasses, and we repeat the same thing. Somehow, this time, I swear it tastes even grosser.

“Now we’re ready!” she cheers, laughing as she throws her head back. “All right, ladies, let’s go make The Lookout a little prettier, shall we?”

The feeling inside my stomach—the one that usually tells me when something isn’t a good idea—is nowhere to be seen. I know I’m only acting this way to take my mind off other things, but I’m in college. It’s what I’m supposed to be doing.

Besides, it’s better than caving and calling Cane to come over and give me another spicy lesson … right?

An hour later, for the first time in my life, I must admit … I’m drunk. My head spins. Hell, the room spins. And I’m dancing like a goddamn maniac, not giving a shit who’s watching.

Haven’s hands hold on to mine, and we sway around.

“I have to pee.” She giggles, hiccuping. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’mma get another drink!” I slur, but she’s already gone by the time the words even come out. And since she isn’t around to stop me, I head for the bar.

There are people around me, yelling, dancing, smoking, and drinking, but I don’t see any of them as I reach for a random bottle of liquor and a plastic cup.

“Let me help you with that,” a deep voice coos sweetly.

When I swing my gaze to him, I have to blink a few times to stop the spinning feeling. He takes the bottle and cup from my hands, and I watch as he begins to pour.

“Thanks,” I say to whoever the hell this guy is.

Over the booming music, I can hear the sound of beeping, and I wonder what it is. I feel so out of it. And even though I don’t love this sensation, I’m enjoying the feelings and thoughts it seems to be blocking.

Just as I reach for the cup, it’s swatted away from my hand.

“Can’t you fucking see she’s had enough?” an angry voice growls lowly. “Back the fuck away from her, or I’ll lay you out right here in front of everyone, motherfucker.”

Though I know right away the voice belongs to Cane, my vision blurs out of focus on him when he stands next to me.

“Jesus Christ, Harland,” he hisses. “Your alarm is going off.” I feel his hand on my waist. “You’re low. Too fucking low.”

Suddenly, I’m swept off my feet and thrown over his shoulder, and even though I’d like to fight it, I can’t because my brain doesn’t seem to want to work. We pass through faceless people, and I hear my name called a few times before Cane yells something out about taking me home. Suddenly, the cold New England air hits me, and I instantly shiver.

“Why are you always trying to rescue me?” I slur each word obnoxiously as I close my eyes, and I know sober me would be so embarrassed of myself. “I’m fine on my own.”

It’s not long before he’s running up a set of stairs and pulling a door open, and we’re back in the warmth of a house. I don’t even bother opening my eyes as he stalks into his room and sets me down onto his bed.

“You’re fine?” he hisses. “Your fucking glucose monitor was screaming at a party, and you’re so fucked up that you didn’t even hear it!” He’s roaring now, and though my body feels like it’s swaying, I keep my eyes on him, wondering why he’s so mad.

He rushes to his nightstand and opens it, and I wonder what he’s pulling out, but when he brings over a small packet and my eyes see the purple wrapping, I know it’s Skittles.

“Open your mouth,” he says, only a tad gentler now.

Even in my drunken stupor, I do as told, and he pops a few Skittles at a time in my mouth. I chew and swallow them. When the room spins, I squeeze my eyes shut to make it stop.

“Let me get you into more comfortable clothes,” he murmurs before walking away.

I somehow manage to keep my body upright, waiting for him to return.

My eyes crack open when I hear his footsteps, and he tugs at the hem of my long-sleeved shirt, pulling it over my head, but he quickly replaces it with a T-shirt. Gently, he pushes my back onto the mattress and peels my leggings off. It’s not sexual, or maybe I’m too drunk to know if it is. But hurriedly, he pulls a pair of sweatpants onto me, lifting them over my ass and hips.

My mind is fuzzy, and I don’t think it’s just the alcohol making me feel this way. I sit up, looking at his handsome face. Reaching up, I pinch the bill of his hat.

“You’re always taking care of me.” I reach my other hand for his abdomen, brushing it against his shirt. “I’ve missed you.”

Even with my mind feeling fuzzy, I watch him inhale sharply and swallow. He looks down at where my hand rests before slowly putting his hand over it.