Page 76 of Filthy Player

Probably not the best thing.

“In you go,” I said, pulling back the shower curtain. She dropped her robe and hobbled inside. I ignored the quick pulse of desire at seeing her naked body and when she was steady on her feet, I left the bathroom.

Sam was still sleeping in his recliner when I reached downstairs, but who could blame the guy? We’d all been up hours later than normal last night and the drunker his daughter became, the more concerned he grew.

Couldn’t blame the guy for that, either.

I went to the kitchen and pulled out sausage and ingredients for gravy and biscuits and started cooking. After I heard the water running for a few minutes, I grabbed a glass of water and took some medicine up to Paige.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PAIGE

I rarely got drunk. I didn’t enjoy the out of control feeling alcohol sent through my system. I wasn’t a giggler by nature or someone who could toss inhibitions to the floor and dance on the tabletops or jump on stage and belt out a karaoke tune.

The fact I’d used alcohol to wash away my fears last night wasn’t the worse thing I could do, but I still felt guilt on top of fear on top of an unceasing pounding inside my skull while I climbed into the shower.

I dropped my head in the shower spray, the water pounded against my neck and down my back. I closed my eyes against the onslaught of watery needles sluicing down my sensitive skin.

Last night’s memories flickered through my brain like a slideshow. That horrible moment when you try to piece together missing bits of information, jamming wrong puzzle pieces into leftover holes.

Drinking wine with Melanie in my room.

Pulled downstairs when pizza that Mike ordered was delivered.

Waiting on pins and needles for Beaux to return so we could talk.

Melanie’s ridiculous idea of playing the card game Bullshit. Jaxon’s glare as we shoved him into a chair.

Laughing. The constant, crazy cackling as Melanie and I wiped the floor with Mike and my dad, and then later Beaux. Although as I replayed the memories, the looks Beaux and my dad gave each other, I pounded the shower wall with my fist.

Those freaking men didn’t lose to us.

They threw the game to us, something I most likely would have noticed if I hadn’t been seeing three of Beaux by the time the game ended.

“That little turd,” I muttered and turned my back to the shower. Squeezing the shampoo into my hand, I worked up a lather and went at my hair, scrubbing my scalp and rubbing my temples as the memories continued.

Beaux carrying me upstairs.

Puking.

Good Lord the amount of liquid I expelled into the toilet was obscene.

A warm washcloth on my forehead and my neck. Water.

More puking. And through all of it, Beaux was there, my silent protector and supporter and encourager and comforter.

I finished my hair, washed my body, and picked up a razor, the memories dimming, but still coming.

Helping me brush my teeth, leaving me alone, stripping out of my clothes like a newly born giraffe, all long-leg and wobbly as I stumbled to the bed and then in it.

“Oh shit!” I cried out as I cut my knee. Blood rivulets formed immediately. I stared at it, blinked away the last memory of the night.

“I didn’t,” I whispered the phrase repeatedly, watching my knee bleed from a poor shave and set down the razor.

I didn’t need a razor.

I needed a time machine.

---