Down and Out(77)

I blink slowly as everything takes on a surreal quality. It feels like a bomb went off in my chest and I’m trying to hold the pieces together, struggling to breathe through the pain.
I’m dreaming. This has to be some kind of nightmare.
Just as I start to hyperventilate, she turns off the water and steps into my room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry if I woke you. Blake said I could use your bathroom.”
My wide eyes swing over to her. “Blake said that?”
Frowning, she glances at my open bedroom door, to the empty hallway. It’s almost like she’s afraid I don’t believe her. “Yeah. . .”
“So you hooked up with Blake last night.” And not me.
Her brows pull tight as she takes in my expression, and I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing—exactly how much did I drink last night? “Something like that,” she says.
Oh, thank God.
Relief floods me as my eyes briefly close. I think I aged about ten years in the last ten minutes. Holy shit.
“You don’t have to look so relieved.”
Her annoyed tone has me looking back over at her, and I see a slight scowl mar her makeup stained face. “Don’t worry, you were a good boy last night. Kept all your body parts to yourself,” she says, gesturing to my half-naked state as she smirks. “No matter how much I tried to get you to share.”
I force a tight smile at her before she saunters out of the room. When I’m finally alone, I fall back on the bed. My heart still feels like it’s about to fall out of my ass, and as I stare at the ceiling, I realize this is the wake-up call I needed.
This shit with Savannah has gone on long enough, and it all stems back to that stupid fight she agreed to do that snowballed into the clusterf*ck of a situation we’re in now. There’s still a lot of lingering anger and hurt at her decision to do something so dangerous without even talking to me about it, and I either need to find a way to get over it, or . . . find a way to get over it.
That’s it, that’s my only option. The alternative’s not even on the table.
The mattress squeaks as I wrap the sheet around me and slowly climb off the bed. My throbbing head protests as I bend down and pick up my jeans. My boxers aren’t in the small pile of my discarded clothes littering the floor, and I’m too hungover to get on my hands and knees and look under the bed, so I shrug and shove my legs into my jeans.
Looks like I’m going commando for a while.
After I’ve got my jeans pulled over my hips and my fly buttoned, I grab my shirt and shoes and sluggishly make my way down the stairs, doing a double take when I see Blake, bathroom girl, and the blond bartender making breakfast in the kitchen. Bathroom girl gives me a shy smile and short wave while Blake humps the air behind them, letting me know—not so subtly—that he bagged ’em both.
I give him a half-hearted thumbs up before folding myself into one of the kitchen chairs, groaning as I rest my head against the table. My current distress has nothing to do with my hangover and everything to do with the fact that Blake’s never going to shut up about this.
Ever.






After examining my makeup one last time, I throw on my robe and scurry out of my room. I can’t believe I’m running so late. Macy’s going to kill me.
The women’s league is getting introduced at tonight’s fight, which means there’ll be a lot of eyes directed my way. Being the center of attention makes me about as comfortable as a pap smear, so it took a little longer than I thought it would to get ready. Everything has to be as close to perfect as I can get it, and perfection, apparently, takes about twenty minutes too long.
I’m just about to burst into the bathroom when the door swings open and I’m hit with humid air and a nearly-naked Declan. I stumble back, right as big hands grab my arms and steady me.
I really have to start checking to see if the bathroom’s occupied before I try barging . . . in . . . there.
The thought dies in my head as I register the bare chest and abs before me, and the droplets of water clinging to them. The way they drip down those muscles, hugging every groove and curve until they hit the towel wrapped around his waist. . . Why, it’s quite possibly the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.
“See something you like?”
My eyes flick up at the sound of Declan’s deep voice. His wet hair looks almost black, and he’s staring down at me with the faintest trace of a smug smile.
I’m not sure which is worse—that damn mask of neutrality he’s had for weeks, so cold and detached, or the cocky look he’s got right now. Both of them make me want to punch him.
I glance behind me, then back at him. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
Our uneasy truce over the last couple weeks has only lasted as long as it has because it’s still super tense being around him, so I tend to avoid him whenever possible. If I don’t give him the chance to hurt my feelings, then he can’t.
At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
Declan’s lips curl at my jab. “Who else would I be talking to?” He leans down and lowers his voice. “There’s no one else staring at me like I’m a cold glass of water on a hot summer’s day.”
I scoff. Or, at least, in my mind I do. In reality, the air in my lungs wheezes out of me like I’m an old tire who just snagged a nail. “Cocky, much?”
His dimples deepen. “You of all people should know exactly how much cock I have.”
Oh. My. God.
If I thought absence from this boy’s words could make me immune to them, I was wrong. Dead wrong.