Reckless(38)

“That’s my point. Had she not gotten pregnant, you guys would’ve gone your separate ways.”

“Maybe.” All this talk about relationships is making me anxious. I finally flip on the TV, click the DVR, and immediately regret it when the Astros game from last night flashes on the screen.

Logan clears his throat. “Sorry if I messed things up with Tori. I swear I didn’t know you really had a thing for her, beyond thinking she was hot.” If there’s any consolation, it’s that my brother is more clueless sometimes than I am. “You gonna call her?”

“Already tried. She’s not picking up.”

He bumps my elbow. “Try again. You know you wanna.”

I do. Reaching for my back pocket, I slide out my phone and hit her name. It rings. Once. Twice.

Logan and I look at each other when we feel buzzing and then down at the couch. He reaches behind a cushion to pull out Tori’s phone.

That explains why she’s not picking up.

He scrolls through the messages visible on the lock screen, the nosey jerk.

“Don’t snoop.” I snatch it out of his hand and toss it on the coffee table.

“She’s popular, bro. All her friends want her to go out this weekend.” He tries to show me, but I wave him off. “I’m only saying you better get on this stat before she…”

His voice fades, and I turn to him. “Before she what?”

“Before she hooks up with someone else.”

My fists ball up at my sides. “I already told you not to talk about her like that. Besides, what makes you think she’s gonna run out and hook up with someone else?”

“Doesn’t she think you’re taking out Sandra?” He lets the question hang in the air. “Gotta talk to her before Tori writes you off. That’s all I’m saying.”

Well, shit. Hadn’t thought about it like that.

I reach for his beer, which he lets me have without complaint. “I thought you didn’t want me to date Tori.”

“No, I said I was worried about you getting serious about Tori. I’m all for hooking up.”

Rolling my eyes, I punch him in the side. “You give the worst advice, but I still love you, numbnuts.”

He pretends to sniffle and wipes fake tears. “Love you, too, bro. Now how we gonna get your girl back?”

I shouldn’t like how that sounds—my girl—considering I haven’t even kissed her yet, but damn if I don’t want to soon.





21





Tori





This bar is like so many I worked at throughout college. Dark and seedy. Smelling of spilled beer and cheap cologne.

But I like it.

Because tonight I want to blend in, which isn’t hard since I don’t know half of the people Vivian invited. Laughter booms behind me, and I turn to see my best friend holding court at our table, which is filled with a bevy of beautiful people.

My eyes drop to the short, pleated skirt I’m wearing, and I tug the hem, which doesn’t budge. It matches the sparkly bustier-like tank top that makes guys take notice.

I’m not in the mood to have my body on display, but I had to borrow clothes because I didn’t have anything nice to wear. Viv thought dressing up would cheer me up.

It doesn’t.

Neither does the bluesy, heartbreaking Rihanna tune blaring through the sound system.

Viv’s motto is “fuck ’til you forget,” but I don’t think I have that in me. I feel men’s eyes on me, and it makes my skin crawl.

I toss back the rest of the mojito before leaning over the bar to order another and reluctantly rejoin Viv’s table. At least I’m not the designated driver.

As the night wears on, the alcohol spreads through me until the smile on my face is more genuine. Until I’m not totally faking it. Until that ache I felt when I realized Ethan had a date with another woman ebbs away a little.

When I’m wondering how many more drinks it’ll take before my lips go numb, Viv links her arm through mine. “Time to dance!”

I let her drag me to the back of the bar and down a dark corridor that opens up to a cavernous room where the club lights are low and the music thumps my internal organs.

Viv wraps me in a hug. “I’ve missed you!” she screams in my ear to be heard over the music.

“Missed you too! I’m so glad Kat had your number.” Am I ever. “She saved it the last time I got locked out of the dorms.”

Viv laughs. “Weren’t you in a t-shirt and underwear?”

I shrug. “It covered my ass.” Mostly.

She can’t criticize me for that lapse in judgment. Her antics usually exceed mine exponentially.

We dance until we’re sweaty and I’m loose-limbed, but when a remix of Twenty One Pilots’ song “Stressed Out” blares though the speakers, it hits me all at once. How sad it is that I got through almost four years of college but didn’t finish. That I’m a twenty-three-year-old babysitter. That the guy I’m working for was probably only hitting on me because I was convenient.

Oh, God. I’ve turned into one of those depressed drunks.

After trading in my mojito for ice water, I try to shake off this persistent funk, but it settles like a fog, thick and suffocating. How much have I had to drink?