Thirteen - Serena

“Are you drunk?”

 

 

 

Kholton has one arm slung around my neck.

Both of mine are wrapped around his middle, feigning unsteadiness.

His free hand opens the front door to let us in.

Loud gunfire comes from a TV somewhere, the scent of beer and pizza in the air.

“Honey, we’re hommeee!” I sing, throwing an arm out.

Kholton shifts his hand to my waist, guiding me in the right direction. “This way, crazy.”

We enter the living room and I stop short, wondering if I really am drunk and don’t realize it. There are two Brians sitting on the couch, holding two pizza slices and two beers, wearing two amused smirks.

“Whoa,” I whisper. “I’m seriously shit-faced.”

Right Brian laughs, while left Brian arches a brow at Kholton. What the heck?

“Not a word,” Kholton says through clenched teeth and spins me toward the kitchen.

This makes Left Brian grin wide.

“Are my eyes playing tricks on me or—”

“They’re twins,” he curtails. “Brock dropped in for a weekend visit.”

Ah. Well, that explains it.

At the breakfast bar, he lifts me onto a barstool. “Think you can sit here and not fall off?”

Swinging my nonexistent bat at his head, I say, “Harley Badass Quinn doesn’t fall off barstools. She smashes them.”

He shrugs and turns to the fridge. From there he gets a bottle of carbonated water and pours some into a glass along with a drop of bitters, then slides the glass across the counter to me. “Here. Drink.”

I take the glass and drink. Fizzy bubbles pop and burst on my tongue. “Hmm. So bittery bubbly tasty.”

He fights back his smile.

I let mine go.

Finishing the insipid beverage, I slam the glass onto the counter, hop off the barstool, stretch my arms out crucifixion style and shake my chest as I sing, “Yeah! My body is ready!”

I hear stifled chuckles blended with the sound of the television and Kholton’s gaze shifts to the living room, glaring at the twins. “Not. A. Word.”

Brian makes the universal gesture of zipping his mouth shut.

As Kholton tugs me up the stairs, I glance back over my shoulder and find the twins staring after us with identical amusement on their faces. I wink.  I’m such a bad girl.

Kholton’s bedroom is, well, like the rest of the house—basic. It tells me zilch about him. No pictures, personal mementos, nothing.  A queen bed with a spindle headboard, a dresser, a chest-of-drawers, two nightstands, bedside lamps, and an en-suite bathroom. That’s it. Basic.

This has to be on purpose. Maybe he’s hiding? But why—or what—is he hiding?

“Go on.” He nudges me at the small of my back. “Lie down.”

I walk over to the bed, work my boots off, then flop back dramatically, arms and legs splayed.

Kholton stands in the center of the room, arms dangling at his sides like a puppet. He appears conflicted, as if afraid to move farther into his own room. He stares at the bed like it’s foreign to him. “Get some rest.” He turns, primed to go. “Be back later.”

“You’re leaving me?” I whine.

“I’ve a party to get back to,” he says. “You’re safe here. Sleep off the alcohol. I’ll be back soon.”

“What kind of asshole brings home a drunken girl and leaves her in a house with two heterosexual strangers who have been drinking all night?”

“Are you serious?” He jerks around to face me again. “What kind of friends do you think I keep?”

I brace up on my elbows. “The good-looking, ovary-exploding kind.”

This gives him pause. “What the—? You know what, never mind.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you want, Serena?”

I beckon him with all five fingers like a toddler would, and he laughs. I know I’m being ridiculous. That’s the point.

“Stay with me,” I request. “At least until I fall asleep.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Good.” I smile and bite my lip. “Because I’m all for bad ideas.”

He gazes long and hard at me. “Serena?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you really toast, or are you just trying to get me to fuck you?”

That accurately guessed truth momentarily slices off my tongue as I grapple for a response.

“Because if you are,” he continues, “you should know it’s never gonna happen.”

Ugh. What the heck is this guy’s problem? Isn’t he supposed to be the ultimate playboy or something? Or is it all just an act and he’s really gay? What kind of known playboy turns down free, willing, and eager sex?

I feel genuinely sad for all the not-so-good-looking men out there who don’t possess that special ‘something’ about them to land a girl with a mere wink and a smile, because, damn, it’s hard work trying to get laid. I realize that now.

“Pfft,” I scoff. “Are you really that full of yourself? No, Khol. I’m not trying to have sex with you. That ship has sailed. I went out on a date with a douchebag and he ditched me. I’m just…a little vulnerable right now, all right?” I make a disgusted noise in my throat and shoo him.  “Just go to your stupid party.”

I curl in a C and stuff a pillow under my head. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave. 

From my peripheral vision, I watch as he turns and walks to the door. Dammit, he’s leaving! What an—Oh. Ohhh, he’s closing the door.

At the click of the lock, I bite my tongue to fight back a winning smile. Back on track.

He crosses the room to the side of the bed that my back is turned to. There’s a rustle. Something thuds on the nightstand, then the bed dips with his weight.

I wait a few minutes before I flip over. He’s on his back, hands behind his head, gaze trained on the ceiling.

“You’re staying?”

He doesn’t look at me. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

That’s part of what I want.

“Do you mind if I…” I trail off as I shift closer to him and lay my head on his chest, one leg tossed across both of his.

His chest rises high with resignation and falls with defeat. Inside, I’m jumping up and down and shaking red pom-poms. I will own you, Kholton Sharpe.

He feels good. Smells good, too. An alluring scent of endless possibilities. I snuggle closer.

We’re like this for a long time. Comfortable silence. Relaxed. Settled. I’m not even thinking about sex anymore. Only this. How right it feels.

“Serena?”

“Hmm?” I hum contentedly.

“Are you drunk?”

In this moment, I know he knows. He knows it’s all a lie. But I can’t admit the truth. I won’t. So I reply, “Yes.”

“Huh.” He removes his hands from behind his head and wrap them around me in a loose hug. “That’s too bad.”

“Too bad?”

“Yeah,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Because I only sleep with women when they’re sober.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch.