Читать книгу The Book Boyfriends Collection: Wither, Wait For You, The Edge of Never - J. Lynn, Lauren DeStefano, J. Lynn - Страница 51

Maybe I can do this with Camryn. Why do I have to torture myself and deny myself what I want most when it should be the time when I’ve earned the right to have anything I want? Maybe things will turn out differently and she won’t get hurt. I could go back to Marsters. What if I do let her go and I never see her again and then afterwards, Marsters realizes his fuck-up?

Goddammit! Excuses.

Camryn and I hit two more bars in the French Quarter and she managed to pass for twenty-one in both of them. Only one asked to see her ID and I guess since her birthday is in December the waitress decided to let her slide.

But now she’s drunk and I’m not sure if she’ll be able to walk back to the hotel.

“I’ll call a cab,” I say, holding her up beside me on the sidewalk.

Couples and groups of people come and go from the bar behind us, some stumbling from the doorway.

I’ve got my arm tight around Camryn’s waist. She reaches up a hand and drapes it over my shoulder from the front; she can hardly hold her head up straight.

“I think a cab is a good idea,” she says with heavy eyes.

She’s either going to pass out or throw up soon. I just hope she waits until we get back to the hotel.

The cab drops us off at the front of the hotel and I help her out of the backseat, finally just lifting her in my arms because she can barely walk on her own anymore. I carry her to the elevator with her legs dangling over one arm and her head lying against my chest. People are staring.

“Fun night?” a man in the elevator asks.

“Yeah,” I nod, “some of us can hold our liquor better than others.”

The elevator dings and the man walks out after the doors slide open. Two more floors up and I carry her out and toward our rooms.

“Where’s your key babe?”

“In my purse,” she says weakly.

At least she’s coherent.

Without putting her down, I pull her purse around from her arm and unzip it. Normally, I would crack some joke about what the hell she carries in this thing and if anything in it is going to bite me, but I know she’s not in the joking mood. She’s miserable.

This is going to be a long night.

The door shuts behind us and I carry her right over to the bed and lay her down.

“I feel like shit,” she moans.

“I know, babe. You’ll just have to sleep it off.”

I take off her shoes and set them on the floor.

“I think I’m going to be—” She throws her head over the side of the bed and starts puking.

I reach over to grab the trash can pressed against the nightstand and catch most of it, but it looks like the housekeeper is going to be pissed in the morning. She throws up everything in her stomach, which surprises me because she didn’t really eat much today. She stops and falls back against the pillow. Tears, caused by the vomiting, stream from the corners of her eyes. She tries to look at me, but I know she’s too dizzy to focus.

“It’s so hot in here,” she says.

“Alright,” I say and get up to turn the AC on full blast.

Then I go into the bathroom and run a wash cloth under the cold water and then wring it out. I go back in the room and sit beside her on the bed, swabbing her face with the cloth.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles. “I should’ve stopped after the vodka shot. Now you’re cleaning up my puke.”

I wipe her cheeks and forehead some more, pushing away the loose strands of hair stuck to her face and then I swipe the cold rag over her mouth.

“No apologies,” I say, “you had a good time and that’s all that matters.” I add, grinning, “Besides, I can take complete advantage of you now.”

She tries to smile and reach up and hit me on the arm, but she’s too weak even for that. Her almost-smile turns into something anguished and sweat instantly beads on her forehead.

“Oh no …” She raises herself from the bed. “I need the bathroom,” she says, holding onto me trying to get up and so I help her.

I walk her to the bathroom where she practically throws herself over the toilet, both hands gripping the sides of the porcelain. Her back arches and falls as she starts to dry-heave and cry harder.

“You should’ve had that steak with me, babe.” I stand over her from behind, making sure her braids don’t get hit in the crossfire and I keep the cold rag pressed to the back of her neck. I hurt for her, just watching her body heave violently like that, but hardly anything being produced from it. I know her throat and chest and insides are going to hurt after this.

When she’s done, she lies against the cool tile floor.

I try to help her up, but she protests softly:

“No, please … I want to lay here; the floor is cooler on my skin.”

Her breathing is shallow and her lightly-tanned skin is as sickly pale as a pneumonia patient. I get a clean rag, soak it and keep wiping down her face and neck and bare shoulders. Then I unbutton her pants and carefully pull them off, relieving her stomach and legs from the pressure of how tight they were.

“Don’t worry, I won’t molest you,” I say, jokingly, but she doesn’t answer this time.

She’s passed out on her side with her face pressed against the floor.

I know if I move her right now she’ll probably wake up and start dry-heaving again, but I don’t want to leave her like this lying next to the toilet. So, I lay down beside her and I swab her forehead and arms and shoulders with the cloth for hours until eventually I fall asleep with her.

Never thought I’d intentionally sleep on a bathroom floor next to a toilet while sober, but I meant it when I said I would sleep anywhere with her.