Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
If only it were possible to chalk up this momentary lapse in judgment to being wasted. The problem with that excuse is that everyone knows I don’t drink. Not after my father was ripped away from us four years ago by a drunk driver. In my brain, the two will forever be tied together.
The longer it takes to fight my way to the front door, the more pressure builds in my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Any moment, I’ll gasp for my last dying breath. Not once does it occur to me to search for my friends in the frenzied mob of revelers. All I know is that I need to leave before I pass out from lack of oxygen.
By the time I burst through the front door, the edges of my vision are fuzzy and I’m lightheaded. I stagger across the dilapidated porch as the cool night air stings my overheated cheeks. With my hands braced on my knees, I squeeze my eyes shut and suck in a deep, cleansing breath before gradually releasing it back into the atmosphere.
“Hey, Harley,” a deep voice booms, “if you’re gonna be sick, do it over the railing. I don’t want to be hosing off your puke in the morning.”
My eyes spring open as I swing my head and meet the gaze of a six-foot-tall condom.
When I say nothing, his voice sharpens. “Did you hear me?”
It takes effort to straighten to my full height. “I’m not sick.”
He eyes me dubiously as if I’m full of shit.
Since I have zero desire to be judged by this oversized piece of protection, I force my feet into movement, walking down the rickety front porch steps. My fingers wrap around the banister, clinging to it for dear life. The cherry on top of the sundae that is tonight would be to fall down the stairs and hurt myself. It would be yet another humiliation to add to the growing heap. And that, I don’t think I could survive.
Once I reach the concrete path that cuts through the front lawn, I hurry to the sidewalk before swinging left in the direction we came earlier this evening. All I want is to return to the dorms, get out of this stupid costume, and lick my wounds in private.
There are a ton of students milling around with drinks in hand, laughing and talking. A few are singing at the top of their lungs. One girl is hunkered over, throwing up on the grass near the street while her friend holds back her hair. I glance at the pile of puke. Seems rather symbolic for how this night has turned out.
The girl groans, and more of tonight’s festivities make a reappearance on the lawn. I give her friend a pitying look before picking up my pace. After about a block, the crowd begins to thin.
Now that I’ve cooled off and some of my shame has dissipated, my scalp begins to itch. I yank off the wig before picking out the pins and rubber band holding everything in place. Once all of the fasteners have been removed, I shake out my hair and the thick mass tumbles around my shoulders. A sigh escapes from my lips. Oh my god, that feels so much better. The breeze wafts through the strands, drying the perspiration.
By the time I’m two blocks from the party, there are far fewer people wandering around. Even though the streetlights are on, illuminating the area, unease scampers down my spine as I realize that leaving the party alone wasn’t the smartest idea. I should have tried to find my friends or requested an Uber. I could have even looked for my brother. Although, after what happened, I don’t want to see him. The most I can hope is that Carson keeps what happened between us to himself and never speaks of it. My brother would probably become unhinged if he discovered that I’d thrown myself at his friend.
It’s the low vibration of a passing car that knocks me from those thoughts. I glance at the vehicle as it passes, slowing in the process as the driver turns his head and stares. There’s too much distance between us to clearly make out his face. When he’s about twenty feet in front of me, red brake lights flash in the darkness.
Oh fuck.
My heart spasms, thumping into overdrive, as I grind to a halt. I scrutinize the sleek sedan. From this distance, I can’t identify the make, model, or color. My pulse flutters as I wait to see what will happen next. If I have to make a run for it, I won’t get far in these boots. They were made for standing around and looking pretty, not actually walking.
Why the hell did I leave the party?
Humiliated or not, I should have stayed put. In hindsight, it seems like an impulsive decision that could come back to bite me in the ass.