“What?”
I snapped my arms straight, fists at my side. I felt hard, but brittle, like I was made of concrete. One solid whack and I’d crumble into dust. “I said I already did. You’re going to hate me now, and I’ve ruined our friendship.” My voice broke again and I realized I was more angry at myself than I was at him. “I just want someone to care about. Why is that so wrong?”
He closed his eyes. “It’s not wrong.” When he put his arm around me and led me to the door, I didn’t fight him. We walked a couple of blocks before I pulled to a stop and whined that my feet hurt and I was tired, and he hailed a taxi to take us back to his parents’ house.
It was late, and the house was quiet. He stopped outside the guest room door, his voice hushed. “Brooke, you haven’t ruined anything.” He sighed. “Can we just forget this happened? You mean a lot to me. You’re one of the few friends I have who even know about Cara. You had a lot to drink. It was a silly mistake. And I could never hate you.”
For a moment, before I call my travel agent and make reservations for a Tuesday flight, I mull over that sentence: I could never hate you. What it meant to me at the time. What it means to me now. And I almost chicken out.
But I’m right for him. I know it. I just need the chance to prove it.
Chapter 17
REID
No matter how many times we’ve woken up hungover, or how many times we’ve mumbled I will never do that again to ourselves and each other, John and I tend to slam back drinks until we can’t see straight the next time we go out. The exception is when we get high instead.
We didn’t even bother with a hangover Saturday morning—we just went straight into the next binge, making Sunday’s hangover a real bastard. It’s late afternoon before either of us can move, and somewhere in the back of my mind is the nagging philosophical question of the moment—was it fun if I don’t remember it?
There’s some chick passed out on John’s couch, and neither of us remember who was responsible for bringing her back to his apartment, or what was done with her once she was here. For all I know, we all fell asleep. Her makeup is smeared to hell and she’s lying on her stomach with her skirt and top weirdly twisted, lots of skin exposed, and all four limbs extended as though she was tossed there.
“She’s kind of tall. Probably yours,” I say, due to John’s known weakness for models.
“She’s kind of blonde. Probably yours,” he returns. He prods her hip with his foot. “Hey. Wake up.” She releases an annoyed grunt but otherwise doesn’t react.
This is really, truly wrong, and insanely hilarious. Unfortunately, it hurts my head to laugh. “Shit, John, she’s not a bum.”
He exhales and blinks slowly, his eyes squinting at her in the not-that-bright light of day—the blinds are still shut tight. “Dude, I beg to differ. She’s unconscious, somewhere she doesn’t belong, where nobody knows who she is. That’s pretty much the definition of a bum.” He leans over and tries nudging her shoulder—with his hand this time. She moans again and he recoils. “Oh for chrissake, her breath sure smells like a bum’s.”
I dig my phone out of the jeans I was wearing last night, which I find slung over the back of a nearby chair. “I’ll call a cab. You find some ID. We’ll load her in, throw some twenties at the cabbie and send her on her way.”
Holding his head, John casts around for a purse while I make the call. “Wallet!” He says finally, his hand emerging from between the sofa cushions. “Okay, who are you…”
“The taxi will be out front in five.” I collapse into the chair just as John utters a string of curse words at a much too elevated volume. “Dammit John, shut the hell up,” I hiss, pressing my palms to my temples.
“Yeah, okay. Look.” He hands me her ID.
I don’t recognize the name or address, but the taxi sure as hell won’t do any good. “Shit—San Diego? We can’t send an unconscious girl to San Diego in a cab.”
John shakes his head minutely. “No man, that’s not the problem.” He lets loose with another string of curses, softer this time, staring at her like she’s a zombie and any second she’s going to wake up and attack.
“What, then?” I ask, and he hands me another ID. I didn’t really look at the photo of the first one, or the age. I do now. The photo could be her—twenty-one year old Amber Lipscomb… Until I look at the second ID, which is clearly the girl on the sofa—seventeen-year-old April Hollingsworth. “Oh, shit.” I knew the club was a bad idea. I knew it.
“We are so screwed.” He stares at zombie girl, no longer making any effort to wake her up.
My phone launches into its ringtone, startling us both. “Yeah?” I croak, mouth parched and heart rate spiked. And I thought my head was pounding before. Ha. “Okay, thanks.” I look at John. “The taxi’s here.”
His eyes swing to me. “Put your pants on and get out of here, man.”
“Are you serious?”
He’s staring at her again, wary. “I’m nobody. She can’t prove shit about who she was with last night, and there’s only so far she can get with a damned good fake in her possession, and being in a 21-up club. We’re nineteen, which makes this a misdemeanor at worst. No one will do anything to me for such a minor offense—but someone would find a way to make you pay for it. So get out of here.”