Stay with Me (Wait for You, #3)(51)

Jax jerked his head back. Actually his entire body jerked back, and my mouth didn’t land on his, but more or less skated off his chin and down his neck. Since my mouth was open, I got a good taste of his skin.

Wowzers, his skin tasted good.

Who knew?

He sidestepped the coffee table, putting space between us. Without him being there, I toppled forward. His hands curled around my upper arms, stopping my fall and . . . and keeping me an arm’s length away.

Confused, I stared at him. His eyes were wide again, all laziness and warmth gone from them. Uh oh. This wasn’t good.

“Calla,” he began softly, too gently. Like way too gently.

Oh no. This was so bad.

“Honey, that’s . . .”

My heart started pounding violently, drowning out whatever Jax was saying. This was like f*cked-up bad. As in the kind of bad one did not live down. I tried to kiss Jax, beautiful and charming and so f*cking nice Jax.

I actually tried to kiss him?

Oh my God . . . tequila sucked butt.

“. . . I said you were safe with me.” His voice was deeper, lower when I tuned back in to whatever the hell he was talking about. “I wasn’t lying.”

What the hell did that have to do with the price of tea in China? Or the tequila that had suddenly turned on me like a crackhead with a rusty spork? I tried to kiss him and he had jerked back from me, physically removed himself from my mouth.

Holy shit balls.

The messy and wet ball was back, this time in my stomach and my chest, but it was mingling with something else that was vile, and quickly rising.

Oh no.

I lurched back, tearing myself from his grasp. “Oh my God,” I gasped out. “I can’t believe I tried . . .” I swallowed a hiccup, a bad hiccup. “Oh wow.”

“It’s okay. Why don’t we sit down?” he offered, taking a step toward me.

Another hiccup. “Tequila is a dirty whore.”

Jax frowned, brows coming down. “Calla—”

Spinning around, I darted for the bedroom. I could feel it. The mess was almost there. I stumbled around the bed, my feet slipping as I hit the bathroom door, slamming my hands into it. The door cracked off the wall, no doubt denting the plaster.

I hit the floor on my knees in front of the toilet—oh God, was this toilet even clean? Too late. I grasped the sides as my stomach heaved and rolled, bringing up everything and anything.

Tequila f*cking sucked.




Thirteen


Tequila was the wild juice of the devil and I’d never partake in it again.

The most messed-up thing was that people always claimed that they didn’t remember what they did when they were drunk. I call bull poop on that, because I remembered—oh God, I could recall it all—in painstaking, humiliating detail.

I’d told Jax all the things I hadn’t done, and some of that crap was just ridiculous. Like things that probably made him think I grew up in a bomb shelter or something.

Then I’d cuddled the bottle. Cuddled it. Like it was a puppy. Or a kitten. Whatever. Something furry that was not a f*cking bottle of liquor.

I’d also shown him a trophy and a picture of me all gussied up like a baby doll and told him I used to be pretty. That alone made me want to shove my head in an oven, but oh, there’d been more.

I’d also told him about the Mom stuff, which was too horrifying to even repeat.

And I’d also tried to kiss him.

Aaand then I puked my guts up while Jax held my hair and rubbed my back. He’d actually rubbed—wow—my back, and I think he’d talked me through it. I don’t know what he said, but I remembered his voice, low and soothing as my stomach cramped and heaved. But he had to have felt the scars. My skin wasn’t exactly even on my back. It was rough and raised in some areas, and I knew it could be felt through my shirt.

Once I was done hurling up all the tequila and what was left of my pride, I’d lain on the bathroom floor, because it was cool, smooth, and perfect. He let me stay there while he snatched a damp towel and then—oh God, even more embarrassing—he wiped down my face. To top it all off, he’d picked me up once he’d been sure I wasn’t going to vomit on him and carried me to bed, where he forced water and two ibuprofens down my throat.

I’d passed out on my side with Jax sitting next to me, his leg pressing into my hip, and when I woke up at some point during the morning, feeling like I’d been hit by a fire truck full of hot, muscular firemen, Jax was still there.

He’d been stretched out behind me, the front of his body pressed to the back of mine, and his arm had been a heavy weight on my hip. If I hadn’t felt like my head was going to split open, I might’ve enjoyed waking up like that. Instead, I panicked like I’d just been busted in the wrong person’s bed.

I’d jumped from the bed, literally, and nearly ate the floor. I had no idea how I grabbed fresh clothes and made it through the shower, washing away the grossness of the tequila yuck that seemed to have bled through my skin, without sitting down in the tub and crying over the pain behind my eyes and all the dumb, dumb things I’d done and said the night before.

Jax was awake when I shuffled out of the bathroom, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he walked into the bathroom with his own toothbrush, which he’d stashed there after the second night of staying in this house.