Blinking my gaze from his muscles, I shuffle forward and snatch hold of the bottom of his shirt. I move the fabric up to his lip and he gets this goofy grin on his face.
“I knew it.” His speech is slurred and his breath reeks of booze and cigarettes. He gazes over my shoulder at the road where it sounds like a semi truck is driving by, the headlights reflecting in his eyes. “Knew that you wanted me.”
I snort a laugh and stretch his shirt far enough that I can wipe the blood from his lip. “I don’t want you and I think you know I don’t.” But as I say it, I actually picture what it would be like to press my lips against his, blood and cuts and all. In fact, it might be a bonus, make things more intense and wrong—making him more intense and wrong. My stomach warms and coils just thinking about it.
He winces, his relentless gaze eating me up as I smear the blood from his cut lip. “Not even a little bit.” He seems slightly saddened, which amuses me.
I let go of his shirt and step away from him, the weird stomach sensations simmering down now that I put the space between us. “Maybe you should stop talking before you say something really stupid.” But the inside of me doesn’t match my words. I feel the smallest acceleration in my pulse and my stomach starts doing the weird warm, coiling thing again.
“I only say the truth when I’m drunk,” he tells me, stepping forward. “And the truth is,” he leans in toward me, passion and Jack Daniel’s dripping off him, “That you drive me f**king crazy.” His pupils are large, the brown in them blending in with the black. “Rubbing up against my dick one moment and the next moment you’re running off all because I say you’re beautiful and I want to f**k you.”
I stifle a laugh, completely entertained now. “Actually, I think you said that we should go back to one of the rooms.” I hold my hands up to my side, pretending to be innocent, and trying not to laugh at him as his face contorts in perplexity. “Maybe you just wanted to cuddle or something. Some guys like that.”
His eyes narrow as he moves back and leans his hip against the bumper for support. “You think this is funny.” He pats his back pockets and then starts to panic, standing up straight as his hands dart around to his front pockets. He promptly relaxes as he pulls out a pack of squished Marlboros and then fumbles to open it. “It’s not funny…” He plucks one out and then goes to put the end in his mouth, but drops it on the ground. Cursing, he bends down to pick it up and doesn’t bother to brush the dirt off before he puts it into his mouth as he stands back up. “It’s not funny at all.” He snatches his lighter out of his back pocket and then drops the pack on the ground and cups his hand around his mouth. He flicks the lighter over and over but can’t get it to light. Grunting, he kicks at the dirt with the tip of his boot and then curses some more. I feel like I’m witnessing a drunken tantrum and it’s ridiculously hilarious.
I haven’t laughed in a while, but I find myself laughing under my breath as I snatch the lighter from his hands. “Here, let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help or anyone else’s,” he insists, annoyed, but still doesn’t bother stopping me as I move the lighter up toward the cigarette in his mouth and flick it. The flame burns as the paper crinkles, but he starts blowing instead of sucking and it doesn’t light. I try again and then again.
“Would you stop blowing on it so hard?” I flick the lighter again and the flame poofs up.
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” he retorts in a lazy tone and his bleary-eyed gaze is unyielding. “Hey, what happened to your face?”
I put the flame from the lighter up to the end of the cigarette. “I got into a fight with the wall and the wall won.”
He crooks his brow, blowing too hard again and it burns out. “A wall?”
“Yeah, a wall.” I give up on lighting the cigarette and pluck it from his mouth.
“Hey,” he protests as I put the end of the cigarette into my mouth. I gag at the potent taste of Jack Daniel’s on it as I light it up and take a deep inhale. I quickly puff out the smoke and do it a few more times, getting light-headed and then I hand it over, the end glowing orange through the dark.
“There you go, nicotine addict,” I say as he takes the lit cigarette from my fingers.
He puts it in his mouth and sucks on it. When he exhales the cloud of smoke, he looks more calm and relaxed. “You sucked that like a pro.”
“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” I tell him and then laugh a little when he busts up laughing, hunching over and holding the cigarette out to the side, the cherry bright through the dark.
“And I didn’t mean it like that.” I shake my head with a somewhat real smile on my face. “I just meant that I had this foster mother who liked to smoke when she cooked and sometimes when her hands were full she’d have me light her cigarette for her.” He stops laughing and I realize I’ve just told him more about me than I’ve told pretty much anyone besides the people who’ve taken me in.
He quiets down, putting the cigarette back into his mouth. “Foster mother?” He blows out smoke. “You grew up in a foster home?” He pauses, considering something. “What was it like?”
“All rainbows and sunshine—I was completely showered with love. Can we drop the subject?”
“Was it weird or good having different parents all the time?” he continues, clearly not registering that I want to change the subject.
A sinking feeling moves through my body, so weighted and heavy I nearly collapse to the ground. “So where’s your truck?”
The lights from the strip club’s signs flash in his eyes as he stares at me. “I think I parked out back… why?”
I head for the back of the building, motioning for him to follow me. “Because I’m going to drive you back to campus.”
He staggers after me, surprising me when he hitches a finger through a back loop on my shorts. At first I think he’s going to jerk me back to him, but all he does is hold on to me for support and balance, trusting me to get him where he needs to go, which is weird.
“How’d you get here?” he mutters in my ear.
I lead us around the corner, ignoring the blast of heat when his knuckles graze the skin on my back. “I walked.”
“From where?” he asks, flicking his cigarette to the side, little orange sparks dotting the gravel.