She nods, sloppily, and then topples forward against me. “No.”
I suppress a groan, keeping her propped up. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno. Lost ‘em. Just met ‘em tonight, so not sure they’re friends. ‘Cept Angel. She’s nice. She invited me.” She tries to right herself, shaking her head, groaning.
“Babe. You’re not good.” I touch her chin, look into her eyes—they swim, googly and wasted.
She just peers at me. “You’re really hot.” A burp—foul-smelling. “I don’t like this.”
“Don’t like what?”
“Drunk. Don’t like it.”
I laugh. “First time drunk, you end uphere?”
She looks around. “Don’t like here, either.” She lurches away from me. “Couch. Must lay down.”
I grab her arm and steer her away. “You donotwant to lay on those couches, sweetness. Trust that.”
“Icky?” It’s a question, and fuckin’ adorable, her big blues aimed at me.
“Yeah,” I mutter, surpassing the urge to laugh, or maybe kiss her. “Real icky.”
“I need’a lay down.”
“What’s your name?”
“Myka.” She peers up at me again. “M-Y-K-A,” she spells.
Fits her. What do I do with her? I can’t send her back out up to Sin like this.
“You got a phone? Call your friends.”
“Don’t got their numbers. Tol’ you. Just met them.” She slumps again. “Oooh, no. No-no-no.”
“Gonna hork?” I ask.
She groans, hunching over, trotting away from me. “Yup.”
I catch her by the shoulders and hustle her away from the main floor—I’m not thinking, just reacting. Get her away. Doesn’t belong here. I get her into the service hall, away from the noise and the lights. There’s a trash can here, a rolling one with a black bag lining it. I hold it in place and she bends over it, hurling.
I grab her hair, bunch it out of the way with one hand. “There ya go. Get it out.”
“Hate puking.” This is followed by more puking.
“Don’t drink so much.”
“Never again.”
“Heard that before,” I laugh. “Said it before.”
“Make the world stop spinning.”
I twist the can so she’s pressing it into the wall and put a hand on her back. “It will.”
“Shoot, I hate this.”
Shoot? Who says shoot?
