Confessions of a Bad Boy(6)

“And paid the price. Yeah, I figured it was something like that. Most stories involving Kyle start with him getting pissed.”

“And end with someone getting knocked out.”

“How the f*ck did he end up a lawyer and not an MMA fighter?”

“Beats me,” Jessie says, giggling. “But he always had a strong sense of right and wrong.”

“For sure,” I say, as we clink, smile, drink again.

The barman slams a couple more shots in front of us. Then more beers. Then more shots. Soon I lose count. And in between the sound of glass slamming on woodgrain we tell more stories. The erotic story I submitted for eighth grade English homework that almost ended up getting me expelled. The time Jessie and Kyle got into a fight over who should beat up one of her ex-boyfriends. The night the three of us spent hours figuring out what to wear for a big costume party at Kyle’s college fraternity – Jessie agreed to help us if we promised to sneak her in – only to arrive and find out it wasn’t actually a costume party.

It's only when we both get up to go to the bathroom that I realize how drunk I am. Just about able to walk and barely able to keep my head from lolling around my shoulders like I’m doing yoga. We wrap our arms around each other for support as we stagger to the bathrooms, still laughing at everything and nothing.

I’m done before her (of course) and I lean up against the wall outside the women’s bathroom, breathing deeply to try and regain as much sobriety as I’ll need to get home. The rooftop party’s already dead, and the only people out on the roof are sitting and talking quietly or passed out completely. I have no idea what time it is, or how long we’ve been here.

Jessie opens the door, sees me, jumps in fright, then laughs hysterically – all in slow-motion.

“Gotta go home,” I say, struggling to wrap my tongue around the consonants. “It’s…” I look down at my watch, but with my beer-goggles I can’t make out the time on the over-designed piece of crap. “Late.”

“I can’t go home,” Jessie says, patting me on the chest as she staggers past.

“Kyle’s obviously not coming,” I slur. “And I’m done drinking. Come on.”

She turns around, her eyes half-lidded, her shoulders slumped. “No. I can’t.”

“You have to,” I say, trying to sound authoritative, and failing miserably.

“I can’t. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Kyle has the key to my apartment.”

It takes a long time for me to process this information, but Jessie seems happy to sway on her feet and gaze at me like a zombie while I do. “Why does he have your key?”

“No.” She grins. “I lost mine. Kyle has the spare one. No Kyle, no key. No key, no my apartment.”

Jessie giggles like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. I can’t help joining in.

“Shit,” I finally say, recovering.

She nods and almost falls over. I catch her just in time and she giggles again madly, a sliver of bare skin between her waistband and her shirt directly under my hand. I feel the heat of her skin through my fingertips, like a static shock of intimacy. Even this drunk, it’s the gratifying way it feels that makes me leave my hand there a second longer than I should.

“Wait a second,” I say, managing to connect some thoughts in between the dizzy spells and complete blankness of the drink. “This is a hotel.”

Jessie pushes me.

“This is a bar!”

“I mean the building. This building is a hotel. Come here.”

She does.

With my arm around her waist, I manage to guide us into the elevator, down to the main desk, and achieve the monumental task of booking a single room through a drunk fog so thick I can barely remember how to spell my name. With another huge effort I get us back into the elevator, and miraculously remember what floor our room is on. Jessie mumbles something about my furniture-suit, and I laugh along this time.

When we step out of the elevator, I feel like my walk to the room is being directed by Stanley Kubrick, as the walls close in and then stretch out into space, and the pattern on the carpet hypnotizes me to the point where I have to reach out and steady myself on the wall. I thank all the gods for whoever invented key cards as I rub it in the vicinity of the lock and we both go flying through the door, collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Jessie laughs maniacally again. I scramble to my feet and step back into the doorway, putting my hand on the door handle.

“Okay. Okay, Jessie. Good night. And for the love of God, don’t touch the minibar.”

Jessie looks up confusedly at me.

“Where are you going?”

“Back. Back to my apartment,” I slur, gazing down the corridor as if I’ll see it at the end.

“No. No no no no no.”

Jessie pulls me by the arm into the room and kicks the door shut behind me. I try to protest, but I can’t think of the words. And anyway, the last thing I want to do is stagger down the streets of downtown L.A. at three in the morning looking for a cab.

I stand in the middle of the room, waiting for it to stop spinning before I make a move. It takes a lot of effort to keep the world from going out of focus, and I can hear blood rushing in my ears. I see a pair of elegant legs, sexy curves leading up to an ass that I want to pull onto my face – then I realize it’s Jessie and look away. It’s f*cking Jessie! My best friend’s little sister.