I swallow and nod.
“Damn straight,” I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “Let’s see if I can still drink you under the table, you lightweight.”
As Troy whoops and steers me toward the keg, I make a decision. I’ll silence the Greek chorus of guilt and responsibility in my head. I’ll get so monumentally drunk that I’ll forget all about it.
Tomorrow, I’ll pick up the pieces of my shattered life and try to assemble them into something resembling a functional adult. But tonight? Tonight, I’m going to be the king of bad decisions.
I snatch up a red cup, filling it to the brim like I’m topping off a gas tank. The first gulp goes down like liquid sandpaper, but I embrace the burn.
“Keep ‘em coming,” I growl, already feeling the world start to tilt on its axis. Maybe if I pour enough poison into my system, I can purge the memory of Dad’s defeated eyes, of Mom’s stifled sobs.
The fucked-up thing? I’m so freaking relieved to be here and not there.
As the alcohol works its magic, I feel my vision go blurry. The music swells, the lights dance, and I surrender myself to the chaos like a leaf caught in a hurricane.
I wake up to someone’s perfume choking me. Lizzie.Shit. The memories from last night flood back—too many shots, her familiar laugh at the bar, the way she’d looked in that crop top. I’d told myself I was done with our little arrangement, but three tequilas in and suddenly sleeping with your ex-hookup seems like a brilliant idea.
I groan,checking my phone. 8am. Could be worse. At least I’m not completely hungover.
“Morning, trouble,” I say, watching her gather her clothes. She’s already half-dressed, efficient as ever. That’s the thing about girls like Lizzie—they know the drill. No awkward morning-after conversation, no asking what this means. Just two consenting adults scratching an itch.
“Don’t do the gentleman act, Freddie,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. “We both know what this was.”
I sit up, running a hand through my hair. Truth is, I like playing the charming bastard. It’s what I’m good at—making girls smile, making them feel special, even if we both know it’s temporary. “Let me at least get you some water or?—”
“My ride’s already on the way.” She pulls on her boots with practiced ease. “This was fun, but let’s not pretend it’s something it’s not.”
Relief floods through me. This is why I keep falling back into bed with Lizzie—she gets it. No drama, no expectations. Still... “I probably shouldn’t have?—”
“Called me at 2am?” She smirks. “Probably not. But hey, old habits.”
Her phone buzzes. “That’s my ride.”
I roll out of bed, not bothering with a shirt, and catch her hand before she reaches the door. “Hey.” I pull her in for one last kiss, slow and deep. When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed. “Thanks for being my bad decision.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “You’re impossible, Donovan.”
“That’s why you keep coming back,” I wink.
The door clicks shut behind her, and I flop back onto my pillows. Another conquest for the books. The guys call me a player, but they don’t get it. I love women—love their laughs, their smiles, the way they look at me when I’m being particularly charming. Why settle for one when there are so many to make happy?
Still... lately it’s been feeling a little hollow. Maybe I’m getting old. Or maybe I’m just hungry. Maybe this time I’ll actually mean it when I say “never again.”
But probably not.
My head fucking kills.Why do I do this, I wonder for the fiftieth time this morning. Turns out “no hangover” actually just meant delayed total shit-show of a hangover.
I’m sprawled on our ratty couch, watching NFL highlights, nursing a Gatorade and my wounded pride, when Troy bursts in like a human tornado.
“Rise and shine, princess!” he bellows, yanking open the curtains with sadistic glee. “You’re still coming to the gym with me before class, right?”
I groan, shielding my eyes from the assault of daylight. “I hate you. So much.” The gym. Right now, I’d rather French kiss a cactus than subject myself to fluorescent lights and the grunting of sweaty student athletes. But I did promise Troy, and quality time has been scarce since we got back.
“Lies!” Troy grins, flopping down next to me. “If you come with me, I’ll make us all fajitas later,” he singsongs, dangling the promise of home-cooked food in front of me.
“Bro, you’re going to make us fajitas anyway. Give me a minute to psych myself up.”
Alfie shuffles in next, looking like he’s just emerged from a decade-long sleep. “Can you two shut up? Some of us are trying to die in peace.”
