Page 11 of Forgotten Sacrifice
Another tray of shots appears, and I pocket my phone before grabbing two glasses—shooting them back to back.
“Go Luna!” Olivia cheers.
I throw my arms around Kevin’s neck. “Dance with me!”
Olivia gives me a discreet thumbs up as she steps inside, and I move my hips to the beat—full of liquid courage and zero fucks to give.
Chapter
Six
Luna
Morning light streams through the window, but opening my eyes doesn’t feel like a viable option. My body shakes, my head throbs, and I try to remember if I was hit by a semi-truck while having the fluanda migraine.
I’m dying. Why am I dying?
The events of last night crash down on me with each throb of my head.
Shots.
More shots.
Making out with Kevin.
Hooking up with Kevin.
Kevin motorboating my labia.
Me pretending to orgasm just to get him to stop.
I cringe, which only makes the throbbing that much worse. It takes effort, but I peel my eyes open to find Kevin passed out in bed with me.
My head’s now spinning like a tilt-a-whirl, my stomachchurning violently. Snapping my eyes shut only makes the feeling worse, and so I force them back open.
Fumbling for my phone on the nightstand, I manage to grab it. “Oh, no.” I whisper when I see the time. In my drunken state, I forgot to set an alarm. There’s no way I’ll have time to catch the train.
Click.
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Oh no is right,piccola.”
Fuuuuuuck. Please tell me this is a dream.
I close my eyes and open them before turning around.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in this little punk’s head,” Vince menaces, his gun pointed at a passed out Kevin.
“Kevin’s dad is a state senator,” I croak, my voice raw from a combination of partying and lack of sleep. “If his son goes missing, it’s gonna be a big deal.” I don’t try to tug on Vince’s heartstrings—I’m not sure Vince has a heart.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he barks at me, and I sigh a breath of relief when he places the gun in his waistband.
I scramble out of bed, still wearing my dress from last night, minus my thong—which Vince spots crumpled on the floor. My cheeks heat as I scoop down to pick it up, staggering when I stand.
Uh-oh. I still might be a little bit drunk.
Grabbing my bag, I try to appear as sober as possible while Vince bores holes through me. Making it to the bathroom, I close and lock the door, plopping down on the toilet. Nothing comes out, but I’ve never drank this much before; maybe that’s normal?
