“We’ll eat,” I told her.
“Naturally,” she flirted.
I shook my head and smiled at her then rolled down the divider. “Joël Robuchon, please,” I told the driver.
Chapter Five
Oh my God, my head. The pounding was intolerable. My eyes felt heavy, too heavy. I began to move my arm, but it felt pinned by something, making me crack open an eye. I glanced to my left. Shit. Shit. Shit. The back of Piper’s head rested on my wrist. I slid my arm out from underneath her but she only groaned, dead to the world, it seemed.
I practically jumped from the bed, staggering back a bit from the pain in my head. Oh, God. Oh, God. What have I done? I asked myself, bringing my hands to my head. Remember. What happened? You went to dinner...
Dinner. It was standard. Steaks, liquor, lots of liquor. More liquor than I thought two people could possibly drink. Random memories of Piper moving to my side of the booth, her hands sliding up my thighs, her tongue in my ear. My stomach lurched and I turned, only to stumble over a random guy sleeping at the bottom of the villa’s master stairs. I felt ill, and not from the liquor. I made my way to the kitchen, meandering around the leeches asleep at my feet. I needed water. I staggered a little, still a bit drunk. I threw open the freezer door and stuck my head inside.
“Fucking leeches, all of them,” I said, thinking on all the ass**les littering my villa floor. She’s the worst, I thought of the burgundy headed vixen in my bed. I lurched into the cold air, ready to spill bile, but closed my eyes and swallowed instead. I breathed deeply through my nose several times and the nausea subsided.
I closed the freezer and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging it. When I was done, I threw it on the floor and looked around me. Thirty or so people laid about scantily dressed.
“You have no purpose!” I yelled at them, but they slept on. “Did you hear me?” I slurred. A few of their eyes opened, so I kept yelling until they were all awake. “You all have no purpose! You’re worthless leeches! Every single one of you is a worthless leech!”
I stumbled forward and rested my hands on the cold marble of the island facing them. They all looked frightened, their eyes wide before standing and gathering their belongings, tripping over themselves in a sleep-induced hangover to get out the door.
“That’s right! Get the f**k out!” I screamed, making my head pound worse. My hands went to my hair and I tugged, desperate for the ache to disappear. I looked about me and spotted an empty bottle of wine. I grabbed it by the neck and threw it at the wall to make them move faster. They stopped short when it shattered then kicked it into a higher gear, clambering stupidly.
I watched them all with an eagle’s eye and spotted a girl near the bottom of the stairwell trying to drape a piece of clothing over a bottle of L’or De Jean Martell.
I launched myself at her and yanked the bottle out of her hand. “I should have you arrested, you little thief.” Her eyes widened and her breaths quickened. I balanced the bottle on the banister and shoved her away from me. “Fucking leeches, all of you!” I shouted at her as she ran for the door, but I caught her and clasped her around the upper arms and turned her around. “Always looking for the handout,” I gritted in her face. “Do you know what this costs?” She shook her head in answer. “More than you’re worth, trash. More than you’re worth.”
Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Let go of me,” she ordered.
I peered down and noticed my hands were digging into her flesh. I released her immediately. “Get out of here,” I barked. She ran and I picked the bottle back up, twisting off the top and taking a gulp. It made my stomach turn, so I spit it out and let the bottle spin to the floor, its contents spilling onto the tile as the bottle rocked slowly back and forth. Thousands of dollars of deep burnt orange cognac seeped into the grout and I shrugged my shoulders. Oh well.
I ascended the stairs once more, running my hands over my face. One more person to kick out. I dragged my foot over the last step, heading for the master but changed my mind at the last second, opting for a shower instead, hoping it would sober me up. I muddled around several empty bottles of liquor strewn about the hall leading to the closest shower and locked myself in the room.
I never did well with sex. I always felt sick later, and I wasn’t really sure why. Yeah, in the company of friends, I’d brag about my fair share of conquests, pretending that girls didn’t mean shit to me because that’s what guys do. Pathetic as that is, I admit, but the reality of it was my stomach felt heavy with guilt, my chest beat painfully afterward, and all I wanted to do was run away, much like I always did when I made bad decisions. Hence, Vegas.
Ask yourself something. Have you ever thought about why guys want you gone the next day? It’s not because they’ve got things to do, though I’m sure there are a few ass**les who think like that, either because they repeated the folly so often they learned to bury the guilt or because they didn’t have a conscience to begin with. But, truthfully, it’s because they can’t stand to look at the reason they feel a hole in their chest. They don’t like reminders of who helped put that sick feeling in the pits of their stomachs. As long as they had a decent mama, the guilt is always substantial. Always. If they say differently, they’re liars. I’m not sure if the feeling goes for chicks, but I’m willing to bet it might. I mean, they’re human, right? They have the same little voices in their heads we have.