Girl Crush(18)
Jackass wasn’t kidding. The Porsche hummed in the driveway. I slid in the passenger side, instantly feeling better with my ass on the soft leather. “Wanna switch seats?”
“Like hell. Buckle up. You’re gonna make me late.”
My face scrunched up in displeasure. “Grumpy,” I muttered the word more to myself.
“Yeah, I’m a tad irritated. I got less than five hours of sleep and get to take my sister’s used piece of ass back to her car because she was too drunk to drive. Great way to start the day.”
I swung my head in his direction just as he took a sharp curve. The inertia or gravitational force—or hell, it could have just been the rays of sunshine—sent my stomach into my throat, and before I could ask him to pull over, I’d vomited in his lap and all over his gorgeous car. The smell of sour alcohol and stomach acid was rancid, but the glower he gave me was worse. I swiped my forearm across my mouth, stunned, and waiting for him to respond.
We were still moving when he finally acknowledged he sat covered in puke. “Please tell me you live nearby.”
The man was literally sitting in a pool of my vomit. I had no idea where it had all come from. I’d emptied my stomach at his house. Tears formed with embarrassment, but when I tried to give him my address, he just pointed to the GPS screen. When we arrived at my house, he carefully pulled himself out of the seat, trying to keep as much of it on him as he could to keep it from the black leather interior.
Humiliation didn’t begin to sum up the thoughts running through my head.
I got out at the same time he did and heard the splatter hit the pavement.
“Where’s your hose?”
I ran to the side of the house, each step sending a jarring pain searing through my skull, and the queasiness returned full force. My mouth filled with saliva, and I hunched over with my hands on my knees to dry heave as he made his way toward me. To my surprise, he didn’t turn on the water to clean himself off but took my hair in one hand and rubbed circles on my back with the other. When my stomach finally gave up its hope for a coupe, I stood and unraveled enough of the hose to be of use and turned on the spigot. I turned to offer him the water to find his shirt off and his tan chest on display for the world to see.
In any other scenario, even the most devout of lesbians would have swooned—or at least stopped to admire the attraction—but the funk radiating off his clothes took precedence over his beauty. He took the hose and began to spray the chunks off his T-shirt and then held it out for me to hold. I watched as he unbuttoned his shorts and then slid them off, laying them flat on the ground. I wasn’t sure if West, Collier, or Brutus stood next to my house in nothing but his boxers, and I didn’t want to find out if there was a personality I hadn’t met.
“Do you have a plastic bag or something I can put these in?” He indicated the wet clothing lying on my grass.
I snatched them up and proceeded toward the front door. It dawned on me, I still didn’t have my car, which meant Collier would have another stop to make before returning home. I grabbed a beach bag from my closet and hoped he didn’t comment on the fact it was bright pink with my initials monogrammed on the front. Whether he liked it or not, the plastic liner would keep the bag from being ruined and contain the clothes. I hurried off to the laundry room for supplies to clean up the mess I’d left in his car and raced by without acknowledging him.
A sigh of relief rushed from my mouth when I swung the driver’s side door open and only found remnants of my presence on the steering wheel. I sprayed the paper towels with an all-natural cleaner, grateful it wouldn’t damage the leather, and wiped off any evidence I’d been in the vehicle. The orange scent I sprayed masked the smell that lingered, and then I turned abruptly into a wall of Collier West. My nose was mere inches from his pecs, which I assumed would normally smell like the shirt and boxers he’d given me last night, but today, he wasn’t so fresh. With a step back, I grinned at the bright pink bag in his hand.
“I’m so sorry, Collier.”
“Can you get a ride to your car? I need to go home and shower and have somewhere to be in less than an hour.” The tone of his voice had shifted back to the West who’d been worried about his sister’s broken heart.
“Yeah. Sure. Let me know if I need to have the car cleaned.”
He gave me a quick nod, and I stepped aside so he could get into the vehicle. There was no goodbye or forgiveness granted. The door clipped my hip when he closed it. He was gone, and I was standing in my driveway in his boxers and T-shirt, my clothes in a pile in the floorboard of the Porsche.
*
“You’re a cunty-whore, Veronica.”
“You’re just mad because you puked in some hot guy’s car.”
“First of all, I never said he was hot. Secondly, you totally glazed over the fact I had my first orgasm with a woman.”
“You didn’t have to say he was hot, everything you said screamed it loud and clear. And the orgasm doesn’t count if you’re staring at said guy when it happens.”
“It totally fucking counts. My bajingo came to life on her thigh with her hands on my body.”
“You were in a public place, Giselle…and fully clothed. Instead of worrying about Roxie, why don’t we focus on Brutus.”
Figured she’d picked up on his personality disorder—I was known for choosing that trait in men—and not the fact I’d enjoyed an evening with a member of the same sex, gotten sweaty and drunk, danced the night away, and then jizzed in my panties. “Whatever. When you were twelve and experimenting with Donna Darnicks, I didn’t tell you it didn’t count.” I huffed and crossed my arms under my breasts.