“Slate, I think.” A whisper. A hiccup.
“Okay. Just stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
15
Indirectly, I’d heard rumors about the wild side of Maverick.
The animal.
The beast.
The life of the party.
Seeing him tonight, however, drunk and out of his mind, is more surprising than I expected. None of his words, when he finds the energy to speak them, make sense. He slurs and hiccups and his feet might as well be made of spaghetti.
Maverick has his arm draped over my shoulder, rocking me back and forth, to and fro with every sloppy movement.
“You’re heavy,” I grunt under the full weight of his frame. I cling to his waist and drape his muscular logs further up over my shoulders.
Finding him was a mission in itself. He wasn’t inside Slate, like he said. I had to walk for an exhausting fifteen minutes, going from pub to pub before I found him sprawled out on a sofa in some random bar.
I’ve never been to this side of New York at night, never seen so many drunks scattered in one place. And never, ever, ever, did I think that one of those drunks would belong to me. It’s not the kind of girl I am. And he’s not the kind of guy I’m attracted to, no matter how pretty or how Rockstar he looks.
Shocking colors and glitter seem to streak an entire section of the sidewalk and an unnatural blend of perfume suffocates the air.
After a half an hour searching, I find Maverick’s car. Thankfully, his keys are tucked into his waist.
With the entire weight of his body still weighing me down, I trudge forward. It’s taking longer than necessary to get to the damn car, but without me reminding him, Maverick seems to forget he actually has his own set of feet.
One speedbump turns into another as he whirls around a traffic light, before screeching the National Anthem from the top of his lungs. And because everything where Maverick is concerned, needs the kind of ending that is wholly, and irrevocably memorable, he bends in an attempt to bow, and manages to empty the content of his stomachs on the head of a stray cat.
It’s gross.
Revolting.
And absolutely hilarious.
Finally, when we are where we need to be, I shove him into the front seat of his brand new Lamborghini. I’m two seconds away from slamming the door shut when all of his hand takes a hold of all of my ass. To say that I’m stunned speechless would be putting it, very, very lightly.
Maverick, on the other hand, still has full control of his tongue. “You’re ruining my damn life, Bethany.”
Right back at you, Mr. Wrong, I think, but can’t manage to say because my ass in his hand constricts all words in my throat. When I’ve managed to catch a breath, I swat him away and walk what feels a lot like a walk of shame all the way to the other side of the car.
Slipping behind the wheel of Maverick’s very expensive, very unnecessary vehicle, I’ve never felt more uncomfortable. Not even both my kidneys are worth as much as this ride. And Lord help me if I wreck it. Lord. Help. Me.
I put foot to the pedal, a lot more carefully than I’m sure Maverick has ever been with anything in his life. Still, the vehicle jumps forward and I startle at the rushed acceleration. When I enter traffic, I do so only before checking left and right and left and right and left again. With my heart in my throat, I force the car to go as slow as it possibly can in the hopes that I’ll get us back to Maverick’s not so humble abode in one piece.
The lights of his high-rise apartment complex are blinding as I bend the corner and turn into the parking lot. When I slam the car into park, I finally manage to take the first breath I’ve taken since sitting behind the wheel of this impossibly expensive machine.
No dents.
No scratches.
We’re both alive, despite how far into the gutter our lives are.
Part two of my workout begins as I circle the car and unfasten Maverick’s seatbelt. I find myself wondering just how much of this he will remember.
“Alrighty, here we go,” I grunt, pulling on his arms. He pulls back and I gasp as he almost manages to drag me into the car with him. His grip is firm on my elbows though his arms start going limp.
“Come on,” I pull again and chuckle when he bumps his head on the roof. Serves him right.
Maverick’s eyes flutter open and he pouts when he sees me.
“What are you doing here?” he slurs, and I have to remind myself that I’m a good person and that leaving him here won’t help anyone. Especially not me.
I grab his legs and start placing them outside the car. And because my life isn’t supposed to be easy, his torso falls over into the driver’s seat.
Shit.
I sigh. Take a deep breath. Ask God for forgiveness for whatever it is I’m being punished for.
“Seriously, Maverick,” I huff, taking a step back with both hands on my hips.
His shirt is slightly raised and from here I can see the elastic band of his boxer briefs and the beginnings of his tattoo.
“Jeanne, where are you now to see your charming prince turn into a frog?” I grumble, reaching down for his ankles and pulling him out of the car until he falls flat on his ass.
“What the heck?” he grunts, his eyes flying open, red as crushed roses in a rainy afternoon.
“Stand up,” I order, and he mutters obscenities under his breath as he pushes himself up off the ground and leans against the car.
I take a deep breath and slide under his arm again, attempting to carry him up to the apartment the way I carried him to the car. Unlucky for me, he feels a heck of a lot heavier now. Or maybe I’m just thoroughly exhausted.
Maverick’s head lowers a little and I can feel him sniffing my hair. I want to swat him away, but my hands are too busy propping him up.
“Damn it, Maverick wake up and walk,” I grumble as my knees start to buckle. He does no such thing. Not that I don’t know better than to think he’d listen to my commands or make my life at least a little easier.
It’s only by the grace of God that we make it into the building. The elevator dings open almost as soon as I push the ‘call’ button and I lean him against the wall, grateful for the support.
How can one person be so damn reckless? There’s a game coming up in a few days, doesn’t he need to be in good form or something? It’s a miracle – and completely unfair - that he’s as good as he supposedly is because heaven knows he could put in a lot more effort in the “giving a shit” department.
The elevator stops at his floor and I manage to get him to the door. I fumble for the keycard, slide and kick the door open, catching my jaw before it drops at the sight of this godforsaken condo that no kid Maverick’s age should have.
I turn back to urge Maverick to step the hell inside and muster up the strength to walk to his bedroom, but Maverick’s no longer standing. He’s now fully sprawled out on the carpet outside his door. I can feel my temper rising, my muscles burning just at the thought of having to carry an ounce of his weight again.
“Get up!” I grunt, grabbing his shoulders, but he’s gone again. Out cold.
My shoulders are no longer interested in supporting his full weight and my arms feel completely raw from trying to keep him upright.
I stoop down beside him and poke his cheek, but he doesn’t respond.