Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(3)

There was something in the air that night. A breathless anticipation. I felt it when I was getting ready, my hand hovering over the plain cotton panties before selecting the silk thong. I embraced it when I sidled up to the bar, my fake id pushed forward with brazen confidence, and ordered tequila shots instead of beers.

It was three weeks before summer and we were restless, our thoughts warring between tan lines and exam dates, each weekend embraced with reckless abandon in anticipation of the slow summer ahead. Chelsea, four guys past Easton North, was going to chase a surfer up to Jersey for the summer. Laura had an internship at the Junior League of St Pete, and Ling would be studying abroad in Korea. I’d be the only one staying, my ice cream scooping gig paying the rent as I shuffled through two summer semesters that would knock out twelve easy credits.

I liked the summers, liked the ability to find a parking spot without divine intervention, liked the easy familiarity that I found in my classmates, liked the house parties that weren’t packed to the vents with freshmen. But still, I felt the desperation like everyone else. The countdown before the year ended. The primal need for one last human connection before they were all gone.

I could have counted down to the moment Chelsea vomited with freakish accuracy. All of the elements were there. Beer, then liquor. Never been sicker. Tequila followed by rum. Not so much fun. When she climbed onto the bar, her thick cork wedges crunching over a finger along the way, I braced for it. When she hung upside down from the glass rack, I winced. When she stumbled from the bar top and toward the bathroom, I steered her to the closest bush and still didn’t get her there in time.

I watched the brown liquid splash precariously close to my new Steve Maddens and listened to the chant of a hundred drunk girls to Brown Eyed Girl’s chorus.

“I’m fine,” she croaked, though no one was really asking.

“Come on.” I tugged her upright and looked around for something to wipe off her chin with. “Stay right here. I’m going to get you a napkin.”

She wobbled to the right and I carefully settled her into one of the bar’s wrought iron chairs. “Stay,” I instructed.

I turned to head to the bar and ran into him. “Sorry,” I murmured, moving right.

“Here.”

It was just a word. Four letters. Innocent ones, but like Chelsea’s whispered curse in the middle of the sorority dining hall, they caught my attention in an instant. I looked up, and that was my mistake.

Gorgeous trouble, that’s what he looked like. The innocent kind that wore polos and khakis to church on Sunday, then fucked you on their family’s yacht. The messy hair, Master’s baseball cap, strong jaw, and blue-eyed prom king kind. The sort that would toss someone like Jonah aside and fling a girl over his shoulder and spank her ass.

Not that I was thinking about Jonah right then. After the last weekend, I wasn’t thinking about Jonah ever again. Ironically, that mental vow brought to mind the image of him, his tongue halfway down her throat, his hand squeezing her push-up bra boob. Thank God we’d decided to go out. Thank God I’d gone up to the upper deck. Thank God I’d seen them, before my heart had really fallen for him.

“Here.” The guy’s hand moved and I focused in on the chunk of paper towels he held out.

“Oh. Wow. Thanks.” A 4.0 average and I was sputtering out syllables like a toddler.

“I’ll do it.” He pulled the napkins out of reach and crouched beside Chelsea, carefully wiping the thick cord of vomit off her chin. I winced at her non-reaction, her eyes on me, one hand swinging through the air toward me. “Let’s dance!” she cried out.

Let’s not. I watched as he tapped at her knee, bringing her attention to him. “Chelsea? Let’s get you home. Come on. I’ll take you.”

My surprise at his recognition of her was trumped by the alarming thought of her leaving with him. “No.” I worked my way in between them and hoisted her limp arm over my shoulder, struggling to pull her to her feet. “I’ve got her.”

“Oh my GAWD,” Chelsea sang out, completely oblivious to the horrible breath she was blasting in our direction. “You guys are fighting over me! This is so cute.”

The guy chuckled, a flash of white teeth showing, and discreetly tossed the dirty napkin in the closest black bagged trash can. “Adorable,” he agreed, taking her other arm and slinging it around his shoulder.

He lifted her with ease, getting her through the exit gate and onto the sidewalk as I stumbled behind them, trying to keep up while he hefted a sizable amount of drunk Chelsea.

“Wait,” I protested. “Stop.”

He stopped, Chelsea kept going, and we both lunged to keep her upright.

“I should probably just carry her,” he offered.

“He is sooo strong,” Chelsea agreed.

“I appreciate your help, but I’ve got it from here.” I fished in my back pocket for my phone. “I’ll call a cab. We’ll be fine.”

He glanced down the dark street, then back toward the loud bar. A belch sounded from somewhere, followed by the thump of a cheap car radio. “I don’t feel right leaving you alone.”

“Elle, E’s a gentleman!” Chelsea squawked.

“My car’s right there. I’ll drive you to the sorority house.” He nodded toward a dark parking lot that looked like the perfect place to chop someone’s head off, assuming you wanted to use a late model BMW as the chopping block. “I’m sober,” he added.