I didn’t even have time to think about the shit storm that was brewing, because Blakely groaned against my chest once more. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she whimpered. My feet moved lightning fast to our bathroom, and I set her down on the cold tile before flipping up the toilet lid.
Her body folded over as she emptied the liquid contents of her stomach into the bowl. I gathered her hair up in my fist, keeping it out of the projectile vomit. Although it was disgusting, it was a strangely intimate move that had my body growing stiff with protectiveness and care. I tried to convince myself that it was second nature to me. I’d held my own mother’s hair up plenty of times when I was a teen. But I knew deep down that wasn’t it. I wanted to help Blakely. I wanted to be the one that comforted her and took care of her.
She heaved until her stomach was empty, then sat down on the floor, those crayon-green eyes squeezed shut. Grabbing a washcloth from the cabinet, I wet it with cold water before handing it to her.
“Would you like another truth, Mr. Harris?” she slurred. Her voice was gravelly, and I wondered if she was going to puke again.
“I want you to brush your teeth,” I said before grabbing her toothbrush and squirting the mint toothpaste onto the bristles. After handing it to her, I leaned against the bathroom vanity with my arms crossed over my chest and watched in rapt attention as she scrubbed her mouth clean of the vomit and alcohol.
When she was done, she stood up and leaned over the basin, spitting foamy toothpaste into it as her arm brushed against mine. I stiffened at the contact and told my dick to calm the fuck down. She was covered in sweat and vomit, and yet here I was getting hard at the thought of her—sick bastard. I was a fucking sick bastard. She touched me again, and based on the alcohol seeping through her pores, I briefly entertained the question of whether one could get a contact drunk.
Once she was done, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The charcoal makeup that lined her eyes was now smeared. The blood vessels around her lips were prominent, and boozy sweat dripped down her forehead.
“I kind of look like her,” Blakely said in astonishment. She lifted her nimble fingers to pinch her cheek as if the movement could wake her up. The alcohol probably made her entire face numb.
“Like who?” I asked, although I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
“Like Mama. Isn’t it funny how we all become our parents? You took care of me like I used to take care of her. I can’t remember a birthday that didn’t end like this. Seems fitting that I would celebrate in typical Sharron fashion.” She let out a disgusted huff.
“I’ll agree that tonight was a poor decision,” I deadpanned. “But one night does not make you like her. I wish you would’ve talked to me, though, instead of letting Maximillian Hemsworth get you drunk.”
She spun around to face me, then poked at my chest with her index finger. “Talk to you? We are so busy avoiding one another that I almost forget you exist.”
Her words were like a hammer to the chest. Blow after blow; she crunched the bones and tendons until she was beating my heart. “I’m sorry, Blakely,” I replied, mostly because I didn’t know what else I could say. There was no easy solution for this. I couldn’t allow myself to be close, but it also killed me to not be there for her. Somewhere along the way, I had grown to care about Blakely’s happiness genuinely. This didn’t look happy to me.
Her finger was still poised at my chest, though it wasn’t jabbing me anymore. I looked down as her hand flattened against my muscles. I let out a sigh of content as her warm palm circled my pecs.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I rasped. She wasn’t in the proper state to make good decisions, and I wasn’t strong enough to tell her no. We were just a collection of wilted weaknesses.
I guided her across the hall and into her bedroom. The moment I opened her door and stepped inside, the smell of her orange shampoo invaded my senses. It was bright with inviting hints of vanilla. I wanted to roll around in it.
On her desk was a stack of books and homework. Her work uniform was tossed on the floor. It looked so incredibly lived in, and yet we have been avoiding each other so much that I forgot we were even roommates. I wanted to examine every inch, take in her life. But instead, I guided her to her bed and sat her down.
Kneeling at her feet, I helped her out of the high heels that she was determined to wear every day to torture me. I wanted to rub the arch of her feet, which would likely be throbbing tomorrow. I was at war with myself and ultimately decided that a simple massage was necessary. Cupping her foot in my hand, I ran my thumb down her arch, letting out a hiss of need when her body shivered at my touch.
“I wish I weren’t drunk so I could fully enjoy this,” Blakely said with a slight giggle. Her reckless decision was a stark reminder of the age difference between us. I had long ago given up wild nights. I liked to toss a couple of beers back with Lance, but my college party days were over. Hers were just about to begin.
“You’re lucky Lance isn’t here,” I growled before grabbing her other foot and massaging the heel for just a moment. I wasn’t actually sure Lance would care. He was always the free spirited one, and he was so focused on gaining her approval that he probably wouldn’t say a damn thing.
“You’re right,” she said before leaning all the way back and plopping her back against the mattress. I was eye level with her panties, which were on full display thanks to the schoolgirl skirt she still wore. I swallowed, daring myself to look while admonishing myself. I had always considered myself to be a gentleman, and I wouldn’t stop now.
Standing up, I eased her legs onto the mattress and helped her guide her head toward the pillow. Lifting the soft comforter, I tucked her in. “Are you going to tell me a bedtime story?” she joked. Those green eyes of hers were heavy with exhaustion. I saw all the weight beneath them. Today was difficult for her, even though she wasn’t willing to admit it.
And maybe it was because I knew she needed a brief reprieve from the guilt harbored in her soul regarding her mother’s death, I obliged. “There once was a little boy,” I began before sitting on the edge of her mattress. She reached out to grab my hand, lightly squeezing it in encouragement to continue.
“He had it all. Two parents he thought he could look up to and a great big house. Everyone adored him.” She snuggled deeper into the mattress, and I bet if she had a bowl of popcorn, she’d be happily munching on it as she stared at me. “But then that little boy grew up. He realized that parents were just regular people. With regular problems. He realized that big house was actually pretty lonely.”
Blakely interrupted. “This is a somber bedtime story, Mr. Harris.”
I shushed her before continuing. “But then he made a friend. And that big, lonely house didn’t feel so lonely anymore. And those disappointing parents didn’t feel as disappointing anymore. And his friend made him see the world differently. His friend became family, and he made a promise that he would protect that friend with everything he had. They lived happily ever after.”
When I looked up at Blakely, mist had gathered in her drunken eyes. She was fighting to stay awake, as well is fighting the emotions bubbling up in her chest. It was important to me that she knew who Lance was in my life. She needed to understand why I had to keep things separate. Lance was my person, and fuck if that didn’t make me feel like a pussy for saying it. But he was. I got up, not willing to continue this story anymore.