Page 75 of Fighting Jacob

Be back sometime tomorrow.

Noah

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After snatching the note from my hand, Slater replaces it with a crystal glass full of brown liquid. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have his bachelor party on his behalf.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”

I hesitate. I’m not much of a hard liquor drinker, but what have I got to lose? Everything I’ve ever wanted is slipping from my grasp, so why not get rip-roaring drunk with friends in a strange city?

What’s the worst that could happen?

The next morning, I wake up to my phone hollering and my head thumping. I want to say that’s the worst of it. Unfortunately, it isn’t. I feel like I’ve swallowed a dozen razor blades, and my mouth is as dry as the Sahara.

As I scrub sleep from my eyes, my eyes trail over the room. Slater is sleeping upright on a chair; he has a pretty blonde draped across his bare thighs, mercifully covering his cock from my view. I’m sprawled on the loveseat—thankfully solo—and Nick and Marcus are nowhere to be seen.

When my phone hollers again, I swipe my sweaty finger across the screen, silencing its ear-piercing screams. It's not ringing. My alarm is going off. For some stupid fucking reason, I chose to fly home at six in the morning. For what purpose? None, other than I'm an idiot who didn't want to miss the training session Lola and I attend every Tuesday at Hank's gym. I booked my flights before our argument, and with it being so close to peak holiday season, I wasn't able to change them—not that I would have.

As Slater would say, “I’m a soft cock.”

Gingerly, I snag my cargo shorts off the floor and head to the bathroom, my steps shaky. If the taxi the concierge scheduled last night arrives on time, I have five minutes to get my ass downstairs or risk missing my flight.

My eyes bulge out of my head when I accidentally bump into a large-breasted lady on my way into the bathroom. She’s wearing nothing but a sheer pair of panties. By sheer, I mean they leave nothing to the imagination.

“Morning, Jacob.” After planting a kiss to the edge of my mouth, she staggers into the living room to pass out on the chair I just woke up on.

Who the fuck is she, and how does she know my name?

Although I’d love nothing more than a few minutes to work through my confusion, I don’t have time. It’s 5:05 AM. I don’t even have time to scrape the roadkill off my tongue, let alone work out why a practically naked girl knows my name.

After throwing on my pants and some random shirt I find on the ground, I grab my duffel bag off the floor then bolt to the hotel entrance, where I slide into my waiting taxi. Morning traffic is light, meaning I make it to the gate of my flight by the skin of my teeth.

“Sorry.”

The flight attendant either misses my apology, or she doesn't care for excuses. She snatches my ticket out of my hand before gesturing for me to enter the gangway. “You're the last to board.”

As I flop into my seat, my phone dings. Once again, it isn’t a message. It’s Facebook notifying me that Noah tagged me in six photos. With my lips pursed, I slide my index finger across the screen of my phone. I’m just about to log into my Facebook app when I hear someone cough above me.

Lifting my gaze, I'm met with the same narrowed pair of eyes that were glaring at me minutes ago. “Please turn off your phone. We’re about to depart.” She refuses to leave my side until my cell is switched off and stored in my pocket.

“Thank you.” Even though she continues her checks around the cabin, her eyes remained planted on me. If I so much as move for my phone, she'll be on my ass like white on rice.

The entire flight home, I rack my brain, trying to recall any events that occurred last night.

Six hours of pondering, and I’m still fucking clueless. It’s nothing but a complete blur.

As I stroll down the departure gate of my flight, I switch on my phone. I can't see the flight attendant, but I'm certain her eyes are still on me as I dial my voicemail to check the two messages I received during my flight. She kept a close watch on me all trip. Usually, I'd savor the attention, but today it just feels creepy. There's only one girl's attention I want. That person doesn't wear wings on the breast of her jacket; she wears them on her hip.

My race to baggage claim slows when a chirpy voice sounds down the line. “Hey, Jacob, it’s Nat. Where did you run off to this morning? Call me.”

Who the fuck is Nat? And how the fuck did she get my number?

My questions are left unanswered when my second message plays. “Jacob, it’s Ryan. Call me back. It’s urgent.” His voice is rattled, like he’s close to crying. There’s only been one time I’ve heard him like this. It was when Noah’s brother Chris killed himself...

Oh fuck.

With my heart in my throat, I scroll through my contacts for Ryan's number. My hands are shaking so much, I scroll past the R's three times before I realize why I can't find Ryan's name. I've never had a reason to use it, so I never stored his number in my phone.

As my fingers rake through my hair, I try to think of another way I can get his number. It showed up as private on my cell, so that won’t work. I don’t see it being listed, so that’s off the table as well, but there’s got to be a way. I just have to find it.

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