My forehead creases as I attempt to recollect her telling me. “I don’t remember that… and I don’t really think that’s what happened. I didn’t…” I trail off, squirming uneasily as the weight of her gaze becomes almost unbearable. “I didn’t hit you, did I?” I’ve never hit a girl before, but, shit, I was really wasted and upset last night and I can’t remember hardly anything.
“No.” She doesn’t seem alarmed or upset or anything really. Just indifferent. She moves back, leaving the door open and I’m not sure if she wants me to come in or not. “Where’d you find your keys?” She changes the topic as she roams over to a desk in the corner, which is cleared off. Her entire room is actually; the beds only have a mattress on them and the posters on the walls have been taken down. She must be leaving soon, probably to go back home or wherever it is she came from.
I swallow the lump in my throat, thinking about how I have to go back where I came from soon, too. “I keep a spare set in the gas tank.”
She glances over her shoulder, elevating her eyebrows. “And you couldn’t have told me that last night when I couldn’t find them?”
I shrug and finally cross the threshold, stepping into her personal space. “I swear I did, but then the next thing I know I’m waking up in the truck by myself, the sun is up, and you’re gone.”
She pulls the desk drawer open and reaches inside it. “Yeah, I’m not one for sleeping in trucks with guys who like to hog the entire seat.”
I sit down on the mattress, wishing I’d gotten a shot or two in before I came here. At least then, my headache would be gone. “You could have put me in your car, you know, and driven me back with you.” I’m half joking, because I don’t really care. I’ve slept in the front seat of my truck more than once and I’m sure I’ll do it again.
She retrieves a prescription bottle out of the drawer, reads the label, then tosses it into an open box on the floor. “I didn’t drive back.” She grabs her iPod off the dock on the desk, the last thing left in her room. She throws it into the box and then leans over the desk to unplug the dock.
“Then how’d you get back?” I ask as I stare at her ass. God, the things I’d like to do to that ass.
“I hitchhiked.” She stands back up, drops the dock in the box, and kneels down on the floor. She adds a purple teddy bear from her bed, then gathers her hair out of her eyes, and grabs a roll of tape from the desk. She folds up the top of the box and stretches a line of tape over it, sealing the last of her stuff.
“You hitchhiked?” I say, unfathomably. “Are you serious?”
She presses down on the strip of tape, securing it in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.” She chucks the tape aside and then stands up and pretends to check to make sure she’s packed up everything, when really I think she’s avoiding looking at me. “Do you see anything else lying around?”
I continue to gape at her. “So let me get this straight. Last night after you put me in the truck, you walked down the highway until some guy picked you up and gave you a ride here.”
Her eyes land on me. “Who said it was a guy?”
I scan her body over. So God damn sexy it’s ridiculous and her skin is so ridiculously soft… an image of me touching her in the truck pushes up in my head. Me lying on top of her. My hands all over her. Is it real or from a dream? “Am I wrong?”
She narrows her eyes, ready for a fight, but then puffs out a breath, surrendering. “Yeah, it was. So what? Nothing happened.” She thrums her fingers on the sides of her legs as she looks around the floor.
I get to my feet. “You should have just stayed in the truck. Do you know how dangerous hitchhiking is?”
“About as dangerous as starting a fight at a strip club when you’re by yourself.” She walks over to the box and picks it up, steadying it in her arms. “And you’re welcome for saving your ass.” She props the box on her hip and then looks at me like she’s waiting for me to say it.
“You shouldn’t have hitchhiked,” I say instead, and then snatch the box from her, gazing at her lips, recognition clicking in my head… kissing her, drowning in her taste.
At first she looks like she’s going to snatch the box back from me, her hands rising toward it, but then she drops them back to her side as I move out of her reach.
“And thanks for pretending that you were pregnant with my child and crying over bills,” I say and then the rest comes rushing back to me. I kissed her. In my truck. I felt her and tasted her because I needed to and wanted to. And she helped, not by kissing me but by checking my blood sugar. Shit. “And for helping me with, you know, the pills and stabbing my finger with the needle.” The last thank-you is harder to say.
The corners of her lips quirk as she folds her arms over her chest. “I’m surprised you remember what happened at all.” She pauses, like she’s waiting for me to say something about the kiss.
I back toward the door with the box in my hand. “I’m actually good at drunk remembering.” I wink at her, trying to play it off, because I can’t go there. I’ve never stuck around afterward and had to endure the awkwardness of the morning after. Granted, we didn’t have sex, but still I touched her breast and slid my fingers up her legs.
She offers me a small smile. “I’m sure you are.”
I feel this heat swell inside my chest at the sight of her smile and it feels both good and bad at the same time. I’ve never flirted with a girl like this before. I usually give them like an hour and use little effort, just enough to charm her, get laid, and leave. Building too much of a connection defeats the purpose of what I’m trying to accomplish with sex and that’s to control a few moments and forget all the moments I didn’t have control. Things have crossed that line between Violet and I, especially after last night. I can’t have sex with her without feeling bad afterward, which means it would be next to impossible to bail after I got what I needed from her. But the thing is I want to slip inside her so bad it’s seriously becoming hard to control.
“I have a question,” she says, grabbing a bag off the bed and draping the handle over her shoulder.
Her tone makes me wary. “Okay.”
“I thought,” she starts but then reconsiders. “I mean, I thought diabetics were supposed to give themselves shots.”