Spark Page 8

  I can’t remember a time I slept so well.

  Another thing that is concerning, besides the fact that I like her lying this way against me even more than I liked her smashed against my body last night.

  “How do people do this all the time?”

  “Snuggle?” I ask her.

  She lifts her head, drool running out of the corner of her mouth, her mascara smudged. “Get shit-faced. How do people do it all the time and function?” she asks before she drops her head back to my chest, clearly not ready to move.

  “They get used to it somehow. They build up a tolerance, and when that doesn’t work, they drink a little hair of the dog.”

  “Hair of the what?” she asks against my skin, the puddle of drool between us moving with her lips.

  “They have something to drink to chase away the shit feeling.”

  “Oh Jesus. Who could drink when they feel this shitty?”

  “I can make you a Bloody Mary.”

  She moves her hand, flopping it against my face, feeling across my skin until she finds my lips. She presses her fingers against my mouth, holding it shut. “Don’t talk,” she tells me. “No talk of alcohol or anything. I still have four minutes.”

  “This is kind of—”

  “Shh.” She presses her fingers down harder, trying to stop me from saying anything else.

  But somehow, I get out an, “Okay,” before she places her entire palm against the lower half of my face. I don’t argue with her on how much time she has left, clearly more than a minute elapsing from the moment she made me promise to give her five.

  “How many shots did I have?”

  “Six,” I mutter against her palm.

  “Fuck,” she hisses, releasing my lips and lifting up on her elbows, squinting down at me. “You let me drink that much?”

  I move my hands, holding her sides, careful not to touch her breasts or even let my gaze dip down to them. “Let you?” I ask, staring straight in her eyes and avoiding her breasts even if it kills me. And it sure as fuck does because I want to see her…all of her.

  “You should’ve told me to stop after three.”

  I laugh. “Babe, I tried. You told me, and I quote, ‘I’m a grown-ass woman, and no one tells me what to do, especially you.’ So what the hell was I supposed to do?”

  She blinks, but her eyes don’t close at the same time, totally out of sync and probably still a little fucked up. “You could’ve taken me home instead of letting me drink more.”

  “Tried that too, babe.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Is that me?”

  “Is what you?” I furrow my brows, wondering if she’s still totally obliterated.

  “That smell.” She grimaces.

  My face softens. “The alcohol?”

  “Yeah.” She nods, her eyes widening as she clamps her mouth shut and starts to move off me.

  I lift up, resting on my elbows, watching her take off, moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move before. She disappears a second later, slamming my bathroom door shut before the sound of her heaving fills the room.

  I roll out of bed, knowing she won’t be back anytime soon, and even if she is, I don’t really want any part of her until she showers and brushes her teeth. I, as a man, have my limits, and puke is it.

  Stalking toward the kitchen, I can still hear her from the hallway, emptying her stomach and probably filled with complete and utter regret. I grab a cup and two pills before making my way back toward the bedroom.

  Knocking, I whisper, “Jo.”

  Nothing but a groan comes as a response.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh God,” she mutters. “I think I’m dying.”

  “I’m coming in,” I announce before touching the handle.

  “No. Don’t,” she snaps, her voice echoing off the sides of the toilet bowl. “I don’t want you to see me this way.”

  “You’re fine,” I tell her, figuring I’ve seen enough drunk chicks in my life, what’s another one. But dear God, I am wrong.

  When I open the door, she has her face planted in the toilet bowl, her hair a few inches in the water and her legs on the floor, stretched out, with her body contorted in a way I didn’t think was humanly possible.

  I crouch down next to her, pulling her hair back with one hand, not caring about the puke toilet water that is now trickling down my fingers and her back. “I need you to drink some water, babe.”

  “I need to die,” she mumbles, turning her head and resting her chin against the toilet seat. “Let me go.”

  “Come on.” I lift up the cup, still holding her hair with the other hand. “You’ll feel better.”

  Her eyes widen again, and she bends her head back into the bowl, emptying her stomach even more. I don’t know how she has anything left after all these hours and the sounds she was making when I made my way to the kitchen and back.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I promise, waiting for her to finish.

  “No. I’m not,” she groans into the bowl.

  She curls her arms tighter around the seat, closing off my ability to see her face and the puke. I release her hair, resting it against her back, and set down the cup, trying to ignore the vomit coating my hands.

  Turning on the shower, I wash my hands, getting rid of the remnants from last night and making sure the water is the perfect temperature. She needs to drink something, take the pills, and wash herself off before curling back into bed to sleep off whatever is left in her system.

  A small whimper comes from the toilet and then a groan of agony.

  “Come on, babe. You need to shower and right yourself.”

  “Right myself?” She turns her head to see me. “I’d like to know how to make that happen quickly.”

  “Drink, pills, sleep. It’s the only thing that’ll help.”

  I pull her back, kneeling behind her, taking her weight. “I brought you water,” I tell her, reaching for the cup on the counter and handing it to her before grabbing the two pills. “Drink it and take those.”

  She doesn’t argue as she relaxes back into me, puke now on my chest. Nothing with this chick has been easy since the moment she walked into my life. Part of it is her fault, but getting her drunk and letting her get shit-faced is completely and absolutely mine.

  “Good girl,” I say, taking the cup from her hands when she polishes off the entire contents. “Sit still for a minute and make sure it stays down and then a quick shower.”

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “What about me?”

  “You’re covered in my puke.”

  I glance down, wincing. “I’ll survive. Had worse shit on me in my life.”

  She tips her head back, gawking at me. “Like what?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Liar,” she teases, but she doesn’t smile.

  “I’ll shower after you once you’re back in bed.”

  “You could take one with me…”

  I shake my head. “That wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

  She twists her lips. “It’s not like I’ve never seen a naked man before, Nicky.”

  “Babe.” I smile. “You’ve seen boys, but I am a man. And once you see all of me, you’ll never be happy with anything else.”

  She rolls her eyes and instantly lifts her arms, grabbing her head. “Fuck. The headache.”

  “Sit in the shower for a while. It’ll help relax you. Don’t try standing,” I tell her.

  “Can you take off my pants for me? I don’t think I have the energy.”

  I stare at her, studying her face, knowing this is a fucked-up request but understanding the necessity of help, especially in the state she’s in. I nod, moving my hands to her jeans and working the button before pulling down the zipper. “Lift up,” I tell her, and she does, raising her ass up far enough off the tile for me to yank off her jeans and throw them toward the door. “The rest you do yourself.”

  “Is Nicky shy?”

&nbs
p; “No,” I correct her. “Nicky’s horny and has a smokin’-hot still-drunk chick half naked, along with morning wood still rearing its ugly head.”

  “Oh,” she gasps.

  “In ya go, babe,” I say as I lift her by her ass and deposit her behind me in the shower spray. “Come out when you’re done.”

  She gives me a sad smile as the water beats down on her, but then she closes her eyes, relaxing back into the tile wall. “Thank you,” she whispers as I close the door, sealing the steam inside.

  I don’t watch. I don’t stick around. I haul ass out of the room and curse myself the entire time for the clusterfuck I’ve created and the wreckage I have no doubt she’ll leave behind in her wake.

  8

  Jo

  I tiptoe out of the bedroom, my teeth brushed, hair pulled back, a fresh change of clothes, and feeling a little more human than I did earlier.

  Nick’s eyes are on me the moment I step foot out into the hallway. “Feel better?” he asks, his blue eyes studying me.

  “Yeah.” I pull at the cuffs of my oversized sweatshirt I brought in case I needed it. “Thank you for being so kind.”

  “Babe, we all need help at some point, and what kind of person wouldn’t help?”

  I shrug. Jamison wouldn’t have helped. I know that from experience. If I was sick, he’d do everything short of putting on a hazmat suit before coming anywhere near me. “What are you reading?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Hot Rod.” He lifts the magazine, showing me the front with a sleek, vintage red muscle car.

  I take a few more steps, moving closer to him. “It sounded sexy until you showed me the cover.”

  He pats the couch at his side and motions for me to sit. “There’s only one thing sexier than a hot rod, Jo.”

  I sit down, leaving a few feet between us for safety. But at this point, I don’t know if it’s for my safety or his. “What?”

  “Women, of course.” He smiles, showing off his beautiful white teeth against his olive skin.

  “Shocking,” I tease, finding myself smiling for the first time since I woke up still filled with alcohol.

  He turns, giving me that smile, and my heart stutters in my chest. “I have to go to work in a bit.”

  “Can I come?” I ask, shocking myself and him, based on the way his eyes widen.

  “Wouldn’t you rather stay here?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to lie around all day. I’d rather be up and about. Maybe I can help you.”

  He tilts his head, furrowing those dark-brown brows. “You’re going to help me?”

  I nod.

  “Help me?” He presses his fingers to his chest. “I want to make sure I heard you right.”

  “Yeah. I can help.”

  “What the hell do you know about cars?”

  “Well…” I pull my legs under my body, relaxing back into the couch. “My dad was a big car guy, and I used to help him when he was around.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Oh God, no. He isn’t around much anymore. He and my mother don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Sorry they’re divorced. I can’t imagine what that’s like,” he says, his face softening and his attitude dropping away completely.

  “They’re still married, but he doesn’t come home but maybe once a year for a week, and then he’s gone again.”

  “For real?”

  “Yep,” I snap, popping the P.

  “Why?”

  I pull at my sleeve again, covering my fingers. “It’s how they want it. It’s not something I can explain easily or quickly.”

  “Sounds fucked up.”

  I nod, because it is fucked up. “It’s not the best situation.”

  “Where does he live, then?”

  “Wherever his work takes him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  I chew on my lip, trying to remember what he said the last time we spoke. He’s been shooting in different locations on three continents for his upcoming blockbuster sci-fi movie. “I think he’s in Iceland.”

  He studies me for a moment, blinking and staring. “You think he’s in Iceland?”

  “I haven’t talked to him in two weeks, but that’s where he was the last time we spoke.”

  “Shit,” Nick mumbles. “My parents call me every day.”

  My eyes widen, and my mouth falls open. “Every day?”

  He nods but doesn’t gloat. “They haven’t learned boundaries.”

  “That must be nice.” I wish I had parents who cared about me as much as his care about him. “What do you talk about?”

  He moves back, turning his upper body to face me. “They ask me how my day went or tell me the latest family news. We mostly bullshit for a few minutes because I see them every weekend.”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand. “You see your parents every weekend?”

  He slides his arm across the back of the couch, his hand stopping only a few inches from my shoulder. “I see my entire family every weekend.”

  “Do you guys know it’s not the 1950s?” I tease.

  “Babe, my grandma is old-school Italian. Sunday dinner is a requirement for every member of the family. No excuses unless you’re sick or out of town.”

  I gape at him, envious of the family life he’s been blessed with, while I have none. “Are you lying to me? People really do things like that?”

  He smiles, inching his hand closer. “Completely serious.”

  “So, tomorrow’s Sunday, and I guess that means you’ll be gone all day?”

  He nods. “I’ve already had the call from my grandmother while you were sleeping, and I have been told I’m required to bring you as my guest if you’re still here.”

  “Me?” I blink. “I don’t know…”

  “You don’t have to, but it’ll break my poor old grandmother’s heart.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “You’re playing dirty.”

  He smirks, brushing his fingertips gently over my bare shoulder sticking out from my slouchy, oversized sweatshirt. “It’s the only way I play, babe.”

  My face heats, and there’s no doubt my cheeks are bright red by the way his smirk widens into a full-on smile. “Fine. I’ll go because I don’t believe your family gets together every week.”

  “You’re about to have your mind blown,” he tells me, leaving his fingertips on my shoulder. “Now, back to cars and the lie you were telling me about knowing a thing or two about them.”

  “I’m not lying. I know how to do a few things. The most basic stuff, at least, but I know my tools. I could maybe be your right hand for the day.”

  His smirk turns even more devilish, and the heat in my face starts to crawl down my neck. “Fine, babe. You can be my right hand all day long.”

  “At work,” I correct him.

  “At work, but—” his gaze sweeps over my body “—you should probably put on something you can get dirty in.”

  I glance down, looking at my sweatshirt and black yoga pants. “This is casual.”

  He laughs, making my belly flip. “I’ll give you an old T-shirt to wear unless you want grease all over that cute pink sweatshirt.”

  “How exactly do you get grease everywhere? Are you rolling around in it?”

  “Go change,” he demands, moving his hand away from my shoulder and taking the warmth of his skin with it. “We leave in five.”

  “Five?” I gasp, scrambling to my feet. “I can’t go looking like this.” I wave my hand in front of my face and suddenly feel light-headed.

  “Whoa,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my arm to steady me. “Sit back down.” Gently, he guides me back to the couch, keeping his hand on me as I sit. “I think you should stay here and rest.”

  “I don’t want to,” I reply, sounding like a bratty little kid. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  He keeps his hand on my arm, holding me in place. “You almost fell over. That is not fine.”

  “I will be fine,” I argue, keeping my voice even, al
though the touch of his hand on my skin is the only thing I can feel right now.

  I’m not worried about the spinning room or the way my stomach is twisting at the very thought of eating something. It’s only his hand. Only his warmth.

  “Stay here,” he tells me, and there’s no give in his voice.

  “I’ll rest and then maybe drop by later and bring you something to eat. Would that be okay?”

  His thumb swipes back and forth near my wrist, stealing my breath. “Sounds perfect, babe.”

  “Off my bed,” I tease, trying to put a little distance between us and needing to lie down.

  “Nope.”

  I blink, my smile fading. “No?”

  “Nope,” he repeats and moves faster than I can react. I’m in his arms, off the couch, being carried toward his bedroom. “I’m not taking a chance of you falling and getting hurt.”

  “You’re kind of overdoing it,” I tell him, but I don’t mean a word I’m speaking. It’s nice to be carried and doted on by a man. It’s something I’ve never experienced. The fact that he is hot doesn’t hurt either. “I’ve survived this long without someone worrying about me.”

  He gingerly sets me on the mattress, sliding his arms up my back to my head before he stops, and so does my body. “No one’s worried about you?”

  I bite my lip, trying to stop the frown. “Only Kimberly, but she doesn’t count because she works for me.”

  “Your parents have to worry,” he tells me, leaning over me, cradling my head in his big, strong hands.

  “They don’t. They’re too busy worrying about themselves to worry about me, but at least I have Kimberly.”

  “Sucks, babe,” he mutters as he lowers his hand and my head to the pillow.

  “It’s fine,” I say, disregarding the years of neglect from my parents. Neglect no one knows about because my parents are always good at showing their other side to the public and paparazzi.

  Nick shoves his hand into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and taps on the screen. His eyes are on me as he says, “Hey, Ma.”

  He pauses, and my eyes widen.

  Why is he calling his mother?

  “I’m good.” He rakes his eyes over me as I lie on the bed, frozen like I’ve suddenly become paralyzed. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”