Page 27 of Call It What You Want
“You’re drunk.”
“Wow,so perceptive,” I shoot back, my head spinning.
“I’m taking you home.”
Home.Ugh.
I’m so far away from myactualhome, it makes my chest ache. I wonder if I’ll ever see it again…
He starts pulling me toward the staircase that leads back up to the main part of the house, and I pull in counterpoint to him, digging my heels in. “I’m not ready to leave.”
Everyone is looking at us now. It’s like someone picked up a remote control and pressed “pause” on the whole party. Music thrums in the background, but even that sounds muted.
He turns, and the second he’s within striking distance, I slap him across the face—really hard.Harder than I intended, actually. A collective gasp ripples across the basement, and when I pull my hand back, my palm feels like it’s on fire.
His perfect, flawless face shifts from anger to pure, undiluted rage. His jaw is set, a tick pulsing under the flush of red on his cheek. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, his grip on my arm tightening painfully.
“And yet,I did,” I respond, resisting the urge to shake out the pain in my hand. I don’t want him to know that the slap hurt me as much as I’m sure it hurt him. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t let go of me.”
People are backing up now, giving us space, like they don’t even want to be peripherally involved with what’s happening. And I’ve noticed my new friends are nowhere to be seen.Cowards.
“We’re leaving,” he growls. “Continue to fight me, and I swear to God, Ava…”
The threat sparks something in me. What makes him think he can just tell me what to do? I’m a grown-ass woman. “You can go fuck yourself, Jackson McKnight,” I scream loud enough to be heard over the music.
With a sharp jerk, I tear my arm free, and by some miracle, his grip actually breaks. I turn and start walking away, but I only get a couple of steps before I’m yanked off my feet from behind.
Jackson spins me around and shoves me into a table, knocking over a mess of half-full solo cups that bounce and spill across the cement floor. Everyone jumps back.
“Why don’t I just fuckyou?” His tone is low, wicked, and it sends a path of fire snaking through my veins. “Right here. Right now.”
My eyes dart around to the forty-plus people staring at us.
“You wouldn’t da?—”
My words are cut off when he lifts me onto the table abruptly, his hot mouth latching onto my throat. My flip-flops have flown off, so I kick at him with my bare feet, trying to shove him away from me, but I’m nowhere near strong enough. His hand slips past the waistband of my sweat pants, and that sends a new wave of panic shooting through me, because then he’ll know…
“No!” I yelp, thrashing harder, my nails biting into his arm. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s like my resistance barely registers. I shove against his chest, claw at his face, my body twisting frantically beneath his weight.
Then his fingers force their way inside me, and he pauses.
“Well,well,” he says against my throat, a low chuckle vibrating through me. “Looks who’s already wet for me.”
Shame scorches through me, colliding with the heat igniting in my veins, every throb of my body betraying me.
I shove against him again, but it does nothing to blunt the rough demand of his fingers inside me. My stomach knots, vodka sloshing around like acid in my stomach. I feel hot, and the world tilts, bile burning the back of my throat—and before I can stop it, my body revolts. I turn my head and vomit over the edge of the table, the vodka-colored liquid splashing across the cement floor.
Jackson jerks back, one brow arched in disapproval as he glances down at me. He barks an order for someone to clean up the mess, then slides an arm beneath my knees, another around my back, and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My stomach lurches as he carries me up the stairs and out to his black sports car that’s waiting at the curb. Queasy, I sag against him while he bundles me into the passenger seat. A moment later, he slides into the driver’s seat.
Once we’re back at Rush House, upstairs, and in his bedroom, he deposits me onto his bed. But almost immediately, my stomach roils violently again, and I roll off the mattress, then stagger to the bathroom, where I collapse to my knees in front of the toilet. What’s left in my stomach comes rushing up like liquid fire.
I’m moaning, eyes shut to keep the room from spinning, my cheek pressed against the cool toilet seat. Normally, having the toilet seat anywhere near my face would gross me out, but that’s how far gone I am. I don’t even care. It’s all about survival, at this point.
A second later, I feel fingers threading through my hair to pull it up, then a cool, damp washcloth pressed against the back of my neck.Oh, my God.It feels so nice.
“Why did you let me drink so much?” I whimper. I realize it wasn’t really his fault, but it feels good to blame him anyway.
