Patchwhore Page 4

  “I’m drunk, Ron-Yay. Drunker than a piss-ant, as my daddy would say.”

  “Yes, you are. You about ready to call it a night?”

  I shake my head. “Not until I do what Kat told me to do. I’m getting under him by getting over on someone else.” This causes a round of laughter from the group of men around me—all who’ve been sitting in silence witnessing my drunken, emotional break.

  “Well, I ain’t gonna let that happen.” I frown at him in confusion. “See, I’m the one who got you drunk, so you’re my responsibility. And I don’t tolerate men taking advantage of drunk women. But I’m sure we can figure something else out.” He grins at me, and I grin back just because there’s something about this kind man that reminds me of my father.

  “Prospect!” If my limbs weren’t like jelly, I’d have jumped at his outburst. Seconds later, a man appears behind him. I swear he has a halo of light surrounding his tall, muscular body. I don’t know if I want to faint, cry or come at the sight of him. Mr. Delicious…

  Ronnie keeps his eyes on me as he speaks to Cook over his shoulder. “Sugar here, wants to dance.”

  Yes. I. Do.

  Eyes wide, mouth parted, I watch as Cook saunters behind the bar. He’s all man—hard body. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. Amused smirk. Then he’s grabbing me under my arms, lifting me and steadying me on my feet. My hands go to his shoulders, gripping the firm muscles there as his hands slide to my waist.

  “Hey, you,” he says, darkly. Is it possible to orgasm from a voice?

  “H-hey you…”

  Grabbing my hand, he leads me through the crowd. I’m floating behind him. Eyes centered on his back. The smell of his leather thick in the air. I lift my gaze to the bright orange PROSPECT patch. Damn … I forgot to Google that.

  I’ve heard a few Merle Haggard songs, and instantly recognize the one playing as Misery and Gin—a classic. Cook stops and turns, his hands sliding up my arms to place them around his neck. His touch feels so … good. I wonder if I’ve been drugged with Ecstasy.

  “I called you back,” he says, grabbing my hips and pulling me flush against him. His body is like stone, but warm and inviting. “Several times. You never answered.”

  “That was me. I called you.” I sound like an idiot. My words make no sense. Cook just smiles.

  “I knew it was you the moment I heard your voice. You have a sweet, southern tone. Even when you stutter, you sound polite and refined.”

  “Refined?” I laugh. “I’m drunk in a biker bar. In my Waffle House clothes. My hair is piled on my head because part of it is caked in syrup. And I can’t remember the last time I peed.” Geeze, Carmen… Why did I say that? Why don’t I care that I said it? Why does the look he’s giving me make me feel special? Or maybe it’s the tequila making me feel special….

  “Do you have to pee?”

  “Well, I didn’t until you said something.” I squeeze my thighs together. The movement causes me to press further into him.

  “We can stop dancing for you go to the bathroom,” he says, baring all his pretty, white teeth in a wide grin.

  “I’ll pee on myself first. Unless…” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

  “Such a dirty girl. I’ve ruined you.”

  I nod in agreement. “Yes. You have. I’ve never had an organism like that.” His body shakes with a laugh, tickling my nipples. Nipples… “I’m serious. I’ve been trying for days and can’t make it feel that good. And him…” I motion over my shoulder with my hand toward where Jud might be. “Well, he’s a selfish bastard. But you…” I poke him in the chest. “You are not a selfish bastard. You’re a very kind and giving bastard.”

  “Why thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that.”

  “I mean it. Even if I didn’t pretty much just use your face to piss him off. I still would say that. And I. Would do it. Again,” I promise. “And next time, you’re gonna do me. Which reminds me … why didn’t you do me?”

  “You mean why didn’t I fuck you?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  His lids become heavy and his voice drops. “Because when I fuck, I leave my mark.” He leans closer. “You’ll feel me for days. And your tight, little cunt can’t handle it.”

  My breath is heavy when he pulls away. Visions of him in my bed flash in my eyes—him fucking me until I scream … leaving his mark. The thought liquefies me. I’m a pool of need … want … desire. And when I meet his eyes, my thoughts are reflected in them.

  “I want you to fuck me,” I say, the words flowing smoothly from my mouth without a trace of apprehension or doubt.

  His response is robotic. “You’re drunk.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Cupping my cheek, he smirks as his thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “I do.” There’s a finality in his tone that might make me respect him for not taken advantage of me. But because I’m drunk, and super horny, his response makes me pout.

  “I don’t think it would matter if I wasn’t drunk,” I mutter. “What’s a girl gotta do to get laid around here?”

  His gaze darkens. “Ask me when you’re sober and you’ll find out.”

  “Such a gentleman to wait until I can think straight,” I quip, but my tone is breathy.

  “Trust me gorgeous, there’s nothing gentlemanly about what I plan to do to you.”

  Ohmylordhavemercy.

  I bet it’s big. Maybe it will take my breath. Oh, I hope he talks dirty. And pulls my hair. I wonder if he’s a spanker…

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demands. He might act chivalrous, but his thoughts are as perverted as mine.

  “I’m thinking about what I want you to do to me.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts. This smile is deliciously evil. “You gonna tell me, or you want me to guess?”

  “Guess,” I blurt. There’s no damn way I would tell him … I don’t care how drunk I am.

  “You been with anyone but him?” I shake my head in answer. Jud had been my first. My last… “I figured as much.” He’s silent after that, even though I’m staring at him expectantly.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Are you gonna guess?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t need to. I already know what you want.”

  My eyes narrow. “How?”

  “Intuition.” He smirks.

  “You don’t know shit,” I mumble. But his confident look tells me he probably does know.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “Who says I’m gonna ask you again?”

  “Oh, you’ll ask.”

  Damn right I will. Just as soon as I get this liquor out of my system. Maybe I can fake being sober…

  “He’s watching you.” His voice breaks through my thoughts, and I realize I’ve been staring at his neck. Jerking my eyes to his, I find a storm brewing inside them.

  “Who?”

  He glances over the top of my head. “Jud.” Cook spits out the name as if it’s venom. “He’s pissed.”

  I don’t bother turning to look. The view in front of me is much better. “Well he ain’t got no right to be pissed at me.” Ain’t got no?

  Cook shakes his head. “He’s not pissed at you. He’s pissed at himself.”

  “Why is he pissed at hissself?” I’m slurring. Spinning a little too.

  “Because he let go of something every man in this room wants.” Is he talking about me? Or what me and Jud had? Somehow I feel like it’s a little bit of both. I also feel like the floor is crooked. And now I’m pissed because fighting to keep my balance is preventing me from enjoying the moment.

  “Can we stop moving?” I ask, wishing the room was about fifty degrees colder. Although I’m sure that’s impossible with Cook near. His presence is like an inferno.

  “We haven’t moved since we’ve been out here, gorgeous.” His smile falters a fraction. Awe, he’s concerned about me! He should be… I’m feeling a little queasy.

  “I think I need some air.”
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  “The moment you step outside, you’re gonna feel a lot worse. So unless you’re ready to feel the aftereffects of Jose, I’d suggest drinking some water and staying inside a little longer.”

  “I can’t. I’m so hot.” He grabs my arms from around his neck and tucks one of my hands in his.

  “That’s the fucking truth,” he mutters, keeping me close to him as he pulls me back through the crowd.

  I really want to look at Jud, give him the finger and then drag my tongue across Cook’s face. Instead, I keep my eyes on Cook’s back—seeming to feel a little more grounded as long as I keep my focus there.

  While Ronnie and Cook exchange words, I thank Kat for the cup she hands me. The cold Sprite feels amazing running down my throat. And when I put the cup to my head, that feels fabulous too.

  I’m faintly aware of Ronnie telling me bye. Kat telling me I killed it. Several of the men from the bar saying goodnight. I mumble something to them and force a smile.

  Then, I’m ushered toward the door, and finally into the cool, night air. I moan at how good it feels. That lasts for about two seconds, then I’m spinning so fast, I have to cling to Cook’s arm to keep from falling.

  “I got you,” he says, guiding me to the passenger side of my car. He’s got me. How long have I yearned to hear those words? The thought is fleeting as I take a seat and lean against the door—thankful when the window rolls down and I can hang my head out of it.

  Cold air blows from the vents in the car, as the wind from outside whips across my face. The car is moving, and I pray we catch all the green lights. As long as I’m being blasted with the frigid air, I might live.

  I concentrate on surviving the entire drive. Surviving entails not only staying alive, but sobering up so I can get laid. And not puking. That would definitely ruin the sex he’s going to give me tonight. I might be drunk, but a girl knows what a girl wants—Cook. Naked. Under me. So I can get on him.

  Something like that…

  Prince Charming

  “I’m gonna die.”

  I hear a chuckle from behind me as something cold is pressed against my neck. Then I’m hurling again—promising the good Lord that if he’ll just make it stop, I’ll never drink again. Tequila is evil. Wicked. And doesn’t taste nearly as good coming up as it does going down.

  “I didn’t even eat my steak,” I whine, sniffling and crying and feeling sorry for myself.

  “I’ll get you another one.”

  “It’s not the same.” Sliding to the floor, I press my cheek against the cold tiles and keep my eyes on Cook’s boots—knowing if I close them, I’ll be spinning like I’m on the tea cup ride at Disney.

  “It’ll be better. I promise.” I can hear the laughter in his voice.

  “Are you smiling?”

  “Always.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m always happy.”

  I grunt. “Nobody is always happy.”

  He kneels next to me—pushing loose strands of hair out of my face while I study his knees. They’re so … handsome.

  “Well not everyone is fortunate enough to have such amusing company.” I’m amusing to him? I guess that’s better than disgusting considering I’m lying face down on a bathroom floor with puke breath. At this point, I have no humility left. I can feel the shame tomorrow.

  Using my inebriation as an opportunity to say what’s on my mind, I lift my hand and hold up two fingers. “Twice. I’ve asked you twice to have sex with me and both times you said no.”

  “I never said no, gorgeous.”

  “Then why am I not laying here screwed?” I snap, dropping one finger so only my middle is left in the air.

  “Because you’re drunk.”

  “Whatever.” Huffing, I drop my hand over my eyes. “Take my socks off. Turn the air down. Why is it so hot in here? Just squirt me with the water hose.”

  “Demanding little shit, aren’t you,” he laughs, pulling my socks off my feet.

  “Pretend I said please,” I mutter, letting my eyelids flutter closed for just a moment. If the world would just. Stop. Spinning.

  I hear his footsteps in the hall, and pray he’s going to get the water hose. If he doesn’t, maybe I can crawl to the tub and shove my head under the tap. Surely that will sober me up some. But I’m afraid to move. Scared to death that the nausea will resurface and I’ll be puking my guts up once again. Even the thought makes me queasy.

  “By the way, babe,” he calls, coming back and setting the small fan from my kitchen in front of me. “You don’t have a water hose.” Oh yeah…

  “The fact that you looked makes me love you more.”

  “So you love me?” He feigns shock—even taking his dramatics a step further by letting out a gasp, as he busies himself around my small bathroom.

  “I love you so hard.”

  “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that.”

  I smile, wishing I could see his face, but not wanting it bad enough to turn and look. But my happiness is short lived. Tonight is not going how I’d hoped it would. I’d envisioned hot sex. Sweaty, naked bodies. Moans of pleasure. Not me sprawled on the floor. Sweating tequila. Grunting and dry heaving and praying for death.

  He leans over me and I’m blasted with cool air from the fan. “I had big plans for us tonight,” I admit, my voice sounding robotic when it carries through the fan.

  “Oh, I’m just waiting for you to pass out so I can sneak attack it,” he says, placing another cold towel on my head.

  “Sneak attack it?”

  “That’s right.” He takes a seat on the side of the tub. “I’m gonna hit it and quit it. Get in and get out.”

  I laugh. “I thought you loved me.”

  “No babe. You’re the one that’s in love. I’m just in it for the sex.”

  “Hey … that’s my role. You’re supposed to play the romance novel guy who falls in love with me after we have sex. The modern day Prince Charming. The one who carries me to bed when I accidentally fall asleep. The one who takes care of me when I’m sick. And takes off my socks. And holds my hair back when I puke. And calls me perfect when I’m not.”

  “Babe…” he drawls. “I did all that. Except carry you to bed. Like I said, I’m just waiting for you to fall asleep.”

  My eyes flutter closed again. This time, it’s tolerable. “You better not carry me to bed when I fall asleep. This floor is amazing,” I mumble groggily.

  “Okay, gorgeous.” His voice is lower—soothing. Like he knows I’m drifting. But there’s something else he didn’t do. And I refuse to sleep until I call him out on it.

  “You never called me perfect, either. Prince Charming would be offended. I’m offended. And I’m definitely not perfect.”

  He lets out a breath of laughter. I envision him shaking his head. “No … you’re not perfect.” Damn. Wasn’t expecting that answer. “But you’re pretty fuckin’ close.”

  Wasn’t expecting that either…

  I’m freezing. I’m literally shivering to death on the bathroom floor. But at least the spinning has stopped and the nausea is gone. The only proof I have that last night actually happened is the sour taste in my mouth and the splitting headache. Oh, and those knees I referred to as handsome. They’re still here too—staring back at me.

  Cook is sitting on the bathroom floor. Knees pulled up. Back against the tub. Head lowered. Breath slow and steady. Bless him. He’s asleep. Poor thing. Did he stay here all night? Or maybe it still is night.

  I reach a shaky hand toward the fan, trying and failing to switch it off. But I do manage to knock it over and wake Cook. He blinks a few times then smiles. “How you feelin’?”

  “Cold.” With a flick of his fingers, the fan is off. “Thank you.”

  He stands, and my eyes follow him as he stretches. His shirt rising just enough to give me a peek at the V that’s dusted in hair and skin and promise. I bet it leads to something big….

  “Want me to carry you to bed, my damsel i
n distress?” I nod like an idiot. Knowing good and damn well I can walk. He just shakes his head and grins, then leans down and easily scoops me up in his arms. He’s so warm. And smells so good. “How long you gonna milk this shit, princess?”

  I pull my nose out of his shirt to answer him. “The real Prince Charming wouldn’t ask that. He’d simply take care of me.” He laughs, his Adams apple bulging from his neck. I never thought they were sexy. His is. So is his neck—thick and masculine. Smooth and lickable.

  “So you do remember last night.”

  The tequila—ugh. Dancing. Vomiting. His not-so-gentlemanly promise… Yep. I remember. Flushing, I avert my gaze. He laughs but it’s cut short when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

  “Is that your wife?” I tease. “Girlfriend?” That smile falls just a fraction, and I know I struck a nerve.

  “No. I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend. And I don’t want one. Women are too much trouble.” He quirks a brow, dropping me onto the bed. My back doesn’t hit the mattress before he’s digging for his phone. I’d imagined him laying me down gently, tucking me in and saying something sweet, but whatever.

  He’s serious when he looks at me—pointing his finger in my direction. “Sleep. And no tequila.” Then he’s gone. Just like that. He didn’t even say bye.

  So I’d milked it a little. But I really was cold. And I do have a headache. I frown when I realize not only how petty I am, but how much it bothers me that he’s no longer here. And that whoever texted him must’ve been more important than me. He didn’t even ask if I needed anything before he left.

  Pouting, I roll to my side and my eyes land on a folded piece of paper sitting on my nightstand. Next to it is a bottle of water, Gatorade and some headache medicine. I snatch the note—immediately forgiving him and grinning like crazy as I read it.

  Love, Prince Charming

  Breaking And Entering

  “Details,” Emily says the moment I pick up the phone. The incessant ringing had woken me from my deep, post-drunk slumber only minutes ago. I wanted a shower, some caffeine and brushed teeth before I spoke to her. But Emily can be relentless.