I'm not the kind of girl that turns down a good taco, but I pass on the tequila. I'm in the mood for whiskey instead. I remind Wyatt I'm underage and can't be served at the restaurant, so he grabs a fifth of bourbon from the liquor store next door to the Mexican restaurant and we go back to his apartment.

I'm not a big fan of alcohol or any addictive substance - being the child of an addict will do that to you - but the universe has dealt me such a shitty hand today that I feel I have cosmic permission to drink my feelings.

My dad is dead. I pour the deep amber liquid into a bright yellow novelty shot glass Wyatt pulled from an almost-empty cabinet. I tip the glass up and and wince as the liquid burns a path down my throat. I chase the shot with a diet coke.

My mom is back. Pour. Tip. Swallow. Chase.

I have a sister. This one justifies two shots. I don't even bother chasing it this time.

Wyatt takes the bottle and glass out of my hand and places them on the coffee table before he puts an arm around me and pulls me into his side. I can feel the alcohol working through my system, almost as if there's a hot, thick liquid slowly flowing through my veins. He runs his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, while he focuses on a college basketball game on the t.v. It's strange how comfortable and natural it feels to be with Wyatt, even though this is only the second time we've been in the same room in a decade.

I reach forward and take another swig of bourbon, straight from the bottle before Wyatt can take it away. He narrows his eyes at me but chuckles as he moves the bottle to the end table just out of my reach. I rest my head on his shoulder and look up at him. God, he's handsome.

I reach up and run my hand along a scar on the edge of his chin. He looks down at me and gives me a small smile.

"What's this from?" I ask, curious.

"Flipped off the front of a shopping cart at the grocery store when I was twelve."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's a terrible story. You should come up with something more interesting. Like you fought with an armed robber to save a bank full of hostages," I suggest. He just silently laughs and watches me, an amused expression on his face.

"What about this one?" I ask, tracing my fingers along a scar on the corner of his left eyebrow. He leans his head into my touch.

"Fight. You should see the other guy." He smirks and raises a light brown eyebrow at me, the scar causing his brow to wrinkle at the tip.

"Seriously? With a perp? Or are you making this up because I made fun of your last lame story?"

He laughs again, a full belly laugh this time and I love seeing him so happy and carefree. "Okay, you caught me. I totally made that up. This is from my car accident. The one I had in college."

I try to remember him telling me about a car accident, but nothing registers.

"I told you about it, I'm sure. Busted my head. Broke my hand and a few ribs."

He goes still and silent, and then I remember. It was his senior year, right before the conference baseball tournament. There were major league scouts there. The injuries ended his season, and any chance at a professional baseball career. Except I swear he told me he flipped a go-cart. I look down at the half empty bottle on the end table and wonder how much I drank.

"I'm so sorry for bringing it up. I forgot."

He shakes his head, and then turns back to me. His scowl slowly slips into a wide, lazy grin. He picks up the bourbon bottle and gives it a shake. "I think I see why," he says with a wink.

That wink does something to me. I feel a flutter, deep in my gut, and my skin suddenly feels flushed. It's stifling hot in here.

The band of my tights are biting into my waist uncomfortably, so I stand up, reach under my dress and peel the offensive, itchy material down my legs. The cool air is so refreshing I moan a little. Wyatt eyes me cautiously from his seat on the couch.

"Don't judge me," I slur, "Your house is too hot. Where's the thermostat?" I start eyeing the walls. I seriously question my judgment as the room starts spinning.

Wyatt laughs at me but stands and grabs my elbow. He lowers me back on the chair and walks to the thermostat.

"It's not that hot in here. It's just the bourbon, kid."

"No, it's fucking hot," I argue. He took off his vest and belt when we came in the door earlier, but he's still in his uniform, and he looks hot as hell, in more ways than one.

"You look hot." My words come out slowly, with more of a Southern drawl than usual and he must find that amusing because he smirks again. I flop my head back against the soft leather of the chair and stare at the popcorn ceiling. If I squint my eyes the bubbles move. 

"Seriously, how are you not dying?"

"I haven't had any bourbon," he calmly explains, but he adjusts the thermostat for me anyway. Thank fuck. Otherwise I was going to end up naked.

"I'm not going to object to that, either." Wyatt chuckles.

Shit, did I say that out loud? I did. I said that out loud.

"I'm going to take a shower. You okay here? Unless you want to join me in the shower," Wyatt suggests as he raises an eyebrow. He's joking, of course. I think.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. I'm fine. I don't need a sitterbaby."

"You mean a babysitter?" He's laughing at me again.

"That's what I said," I slur. He walks down the hall still chuckling and I curl up in the oversized recliner.

I shut my eyes... my eyelids are so heavy... my whole body is heavy... it sinks into the fabric... blackness takes over...

I startle at the feeling of hands under my knees. Another arm snakes around my back. I open one eye and take in Wyatt's damp hair and wet skin. How long was I asleep?

"I'm just going to get you cleaned up and in bed," he whispers. I look down and there's vomit on my dress and the tip of my hair and the edge of his chair. Classy.

"Put me down." He ignores me, and I'm glad because I like being in his arms. He's warm and smells like soap. He continues across the living room, carrying me with ease. I'm impressed. Wyatt's not a scrawny little boy anymore.

"Let's get you to the bathroom and cleaned up." We pass a large bathroom, but don't stop. He carries me through the last door on the right and leaves me standing in the middle of a large bedroom as he disappears through another doorway.

The room is masculine and moody, with navy walls and dark wood furniture. Police and baseball memorabilia are scattered throughout. There's a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. He returns to the room, a washcloth in his hand.

He tells me to sit on the edge of the bed, so I do. He gently wipes my face. He tells me to go into the adjoining bathroom and brush my teeth. So I do. I take an extra minute to rinse and wash the tips of my hair with a bottle of woodsy smelling shampoo I find in the shower. When I exit, Wyatt is gone, so I take off vomit dress, toss it in the pile in the corner and crawl in the bed.

The bed is unmade but cozy. I'm nestled between hideous red and pink floral patterned flannel sheets that remind me of my grandmother's curtains and seem so out of place they make me giggle. But as ugly as the sheets are, they are impossibly soft and warm. I lean back and close my eyes, and my entire body relaxes.

"Ahem." Wyatt clears his throat and wakes me from my too brief slumber. "Um, kid, this is my room."

"Mhhmmm..." I mutter and roll over, shutting my eyes.

He sits on the edge of the bed and traces the side of my face with his fingertips. I open my eyes expecting to see a tall, dark and handsome stranger. It's just blurry Wyatt.

"Let's get you to the guest room," he says as he pulls back the covers. He lets out a harsh breath.

"Jesus, Blaise. What happened to your dress?" His tone sounds angry but his eyes look hungry as they roam my nearly naked body.

I point to the pile of clothes in the corner. "There was puke on it."

The room starts to spin again. He pulls the covers up to my chin and his hands linger on my shoulder and neck. It's too hot in here, but it feels nice to be touched. The sheets feel nice against my skin. Everything feels nice except for the bra strap biting into my shoulders and ribs. I stay under the blanket but reach around and unclasp my bra. I pull it from under the comforter and throw it in the pile of clothes in the corner.

Wyatt is still looking at me with a clenched jaw and dilated pupils.

"What are you doing, Blaise?" he whispers.

"It's hot and bras are evil." He smiles.

I sit up and the blanket falls to my waist. He stops smiling. He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

"You are trying my patience right now," he finally says. The room blurs again. But if I close one eye there's only one Wyatt and he's barely even blurry. I probably look like a pirate, but his hooded eyes aren't on my face anyway. He's staring at my breasts. His breathing is swift and shallow; his eyes are wide. And then it dawns on me. He wants me.

Acting on impulse, I reach forward and pull his face to mine. He doesn't resist. This has been one of the hardest, shittiest, most insane days of my life. I just want to feel good but this kiss feels ... weird. Wyatt's hands grip my shoulders and he pulls away.

"You're drunk." It's a statement, but he's looking at me like it's a question.

"I am."

He sighs and I fall back on the pillow and throw my arm over my face. "I'm sad, Wyatt. I just want to feel good."

The bed springs croak and I feel the weight on the mattress shift. I open an eye and find him lying next to me, propped on an elbow, staring down at my face.

"I can make you feel good, Blaise. So good." There's an unspoken question in his eyes. I don't say yes, but I don't say no either. Suddenly the covers are pulled completely off and he's on me. He's kissing my jaw and touching my neck and the room is still spinning.

"Wait," I put my hand to his chest. He leans up on his right forearm, his left hand is still resting on my rib cage under my right breast. He looks at me expectantly, but I can't find words. At least the room stopped spinning.

He watches me for several seconds, but when I don't say anything, he drags his hand slowly down my side to my right hip. He hooks his left thumb in the waistband of my panties and the room starts to spin again. I'm nauseous.

I press lightly on his chest and he removes his hand, but he takes this as a cue to switch positions. He rolls me over so he's laying beneath me, still fully clothed, and I'm straddling his lap in nothing but my underwear, looking down at him. I can feel his hardness underneath me and it's impressive and intimidating and exciting. He looks hot as fuck. I'm so confused.

He touches my naked breasts. My nipples harden in response to his touch, but it all still feels wrong. I love Wyatt, I always have, but not like this. I think I'm going to be sick. 

I find my words.

"I think I'm going to be sick." 

Judging by the look on his face, they're not good words. He stills and just stares at me. A clock on the wall behind me ticks.

It ticks again.

It ticks a third time.

His jaw flexes and he closes his eyes and takes a deep, ragged breath, but he says nothing. I crawl off his body and cover myself with the ridiculous floral sheet, then scoot to the opposite end of the bed.

"Are you okay?" he finally asks. I decide to be honest. I've never lied to Wyatt.

"I don't want to do this." I whisper. I try to gauge his reaction, but it's hard because both of his faces are blurry. I don't want to hurt him. "Not today. Not like this."

"You think maybe you could have figured this out fifteen minutes ago? I'm hard as a rock over here." I feel guilty, angry and embarrassed and why is the fucking room still spinning?

He stands up and walks to the door. "You can sleep in here. I'll be in the guest room down the hall." He turns and slams the door on the way out so hard a photograph falls off the wall and the frame cracks.

I cry out involuntarily. I curl myself in a ball. I'm six years old again and hiding under my bed....

"Where are you, you little shit?" my mother snarls as she opens and slams the cupboards. "I know you're in this house somewhere!" The bedroom door creaks open, then slams shut. A photo frame falls off the wall and shatters on the ground. A hand snakes around my ankle and pulls me out from under the bed. I scream..."

The door flies open and Wyatt tears into the room, dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed. He takes my hands in mine and looks into my eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Blaise. I didn't mean to scare you." I hiccup. He kisses the tops of my hands. "I know better."

"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have..." I glance down at his erection. He chuckles.

"It's fine. Nothing another cold shower won't cure." He winks. He's back to his old, charming, playful self. I relax at his tone. "You okay?" he asks.

Not really, but I nod anyway.

He pauses a moment, studying my face before he says, "I got you, kid. Sleep sweet."

"You, too, Wyatt."

He leaves and closes the door, gently this time. I roll over and pull the comforter up to my chin. I close my eyes and think about my dead father and my junkie mother and my new sister and my old friend. Then I welcome sleep, dreaming of a sexy, bearded stranger with rough fingertips and bourbon-colored eyes.