Page 41 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
Of course that was the only thing I heard.
Nico said, “Now gimme a kiss before I send you back to your girls and your main man Ryan fuckin’ Gosling.”
He didn’t wait for me to say anything, he just kissed me again. When I was sure I’d pass out from want, he pulled away and stared into my eyes. “Tomorrow.”
It was a promise and a threat, rolled into one. Tomorrow, if I saw him, would make date number three. I had the sneaking suspicion he knew all along exactly how the three-date rule worked, and whatever dance we’d been doing up to now would turn into something else entirely.
Something I was equally desperate for and terrified of.
I nodded. “Tomorrow.” More softly, I added, “And thank you, Nico, for all of this. It’s amazing. This is the best birthday I’ve had in a really long time. As long as I can remember.”
Nico’s smile was dazzling. His eyes glinted devilish blue. Without another word, he climbed on his bike, revved it up, and roared off down the dark street.
I watched him go. He hadn’t worn a helmet.
When he was out of sight around the corner, I made my way back to Chloe and Grace, and stood arm in arm with them as the mariachi band launched into another song. Some of the neighbors strolled over to enjoy the music, and even old Mrs. Lewis seemed content, watching from her window, nodding her head.
I was happy. It was my birthday, and things were good.
But in one small, quiet corner of my heart, a voice had begun to repeat itself. It was a voice I was intimately familiar with. One I knew from past experience I should heed.
Watch out. Too good to be true always is.
I had no idea, then, just how devastatingly right that voice would turn out to be.
Sunday morning arrived with all the pleasantness of a sledgehammer bashing my skull.
When I sat up in bed, I immediately wished I hadn’t. Rooms weren’t supposed to spin and tilt in that awful way. Groaning, I flopped back against the pillow. From beside me came an answering groan.
Apparently, Chloe had slept over.
We were sprawled on my bed, still in PJs and boas, the bedcovers a tangled mess beneath us. Obviously we hadn’t had the presence of mind to get beneath them when we passed out.
Through the cotton in my mouth, I said, “I feel like I’ve been beaten with a bat.”
Chloe’s blond hair looked as if some angry nocturnal animal had made a nest in it. She winced, laying a hand over her eyes. “The infamous margarita bat strikes again. And why are you yelling?”
Her voice sounded like thunder to my sensitive ears. “Look who’s talking, Miss Shouty Shouterton. They can probably hear you on Muscle Beach.”
From the kitchen drifted the delicious scents of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon. I assumed that it was Grace’s doing, or I’d been burgled by a short-order cook. I waited a moment, breathing deeply, letting my stomach decide if it was going with violent barfing or if it could tolerate the grease and caffeine cure. After a moment in which my stomach stayed mute on the matter, I decided to try getting up again, this time with better results.
Once standing, I looked at Chloe. “You know what we need?”
She peered at me through her fingers.
“Hair of the dog.”
“There’s only one problem with that idea.”
“Which is?”
“I’d have to stand.”
I walked to her side of the bed. “Walked” is actually a generous description of the herky-jerky movements of my body, but nonetheless I made it in one piece. I held out a hand to Chloe. She took it and sat up, swinging her long legs over the side of the bed. In her wake she left a drift of rainbow feathers on the sheets.
She looked down at the boa lying listlessly on her chest. “This thing has definitely seen better days.”
“So have we. Now get your ass out of bed. I need a transfusion of coffee and a Bloody Mary.”
