Page 62 of Bad Boy Done Wrong
Josh got in and started the car.
“She’s judging me,” Zach informed him.
“They do that.” He pulled out of the lot.
He slapped the dashboard. “Pitying me!”
“Nah.”
“Ask her!”
Josh gave him a small slap of brotherly affection on the cheek. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
They drove in silence, his own thoughts dark and getting worse. Who was Carrie to judge him just because she came from perfect la-la land of perfect married parents in perfect suburbia somewhere. He didn’t even know where. He knew next to nothing about her except for her taste and her softness and her sounds, like when she came or when she got excited to see him or when she ate something delicious. He sighed at the memory.
Josh walked with him to his front door. Zach pulled out his keys, unlocked the door, and turned to Josh. “Sometimes when she sleeps, she whimpers like a kitten. Like something’s bothering her and then I just stroke her hair, pet her like that—” he petted his own hair “—and she stretches out content and quiet.”
“Awesome. I don’t want to see you drinking again.” Josh poked him in the chest. “Be a man and face whatever’s crawled up your ass.”
“It’s her!”
“Then faceher. When you’re sober.”
“Who do you think you are?” he snarled, but Josh didn’t have a good answer. He just reached over, pushed open the door, and shoved him inside.
“Wuss!” Zach yelled through the closed door.
“Sleep it off, bonehead!”
He stumbled to the sofa and lay down because Carrie hadruinedthe bed for him. Too many memories of his little kitten, his tigress, his pussy. Fuckinghellhe missed her.
