Thoughtful (Thoughtless, #1.5)(49)

Sam sighed and then helped me to his car. Not being overly gentle, he shoved me inside. I kept my eyes glued on his glove box. If I didn’t move, I didn’t feel quite so sick. Sam got in on his side, and I wanted to tell him not to take me home. Take me to Evan’s, take me to Matt’s, just don’t take me home. I was wrong about her. I was wrong about everything.

He didn’t listen to my unspoken request though, and back home is where I ended up. Sam opened my door, then helped me out. My legs felt like rubber; he had to prop me up to keep me standing. We made it to the door and Sam started pounding on it. I wondered which one of my roommates would answer. The girl I’d just f*cked, or the guy she’d just f*cked? Either way, I was f*cked.

As fate would have it, Kiera opened the door. I wasn’t looking at her, but I could tell it was her by her feet. And her legs. And her hips. Such luscious, sexy hips. Too bad they welcomed the whole entire world. Slut.

“I think this belongs to you,” Sam stated as he started moving us inside. I wanted to protest his words. I didn’t belong to her. I didn’t mean anything to her. That was the problem. Sam led me to the living room, then unceremoniously dumped me into the chair. I slouched over, because it was all I could do…



I slept like shit. I tossed, turned, my stomach heaved, and I swear my body was vibrating. None of the physical pain compared to the images that flashed through my brain though. I saw Kiera and Denny in all their I-love-you-forever glory. I watched them make love a thousand times, over and over. I saw her face when he brought her to the brink. I heard them whisper their feelings for each other. It was torture, but it was worse when I replayed Kiera and me together. My head ran through the entire encounter, trying to find one moment that was blatantly fake or forced. I couldn’t find a second where Kiera wasn’t fully and completely into it though. There was nothing about the moment that didn’t feel genuine, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t. She hadn’t been having sex with me; she’d been putting a Band-Aid on a wound.

Giving up on the sleep that wasn’t happening, I sat up in bed. My head was pounding, and my throat was completely dry. The last thing I clearly remembered was Sam driving me home…and Kiera. She’d been awake, she’d opened the door. I couldn’t remember much after Sam dumped me onto my chair, but she must have helped me get upstairs and into bed. Why the f*ck would she do that?

My head almost hurt too much to use it. Glancing at my floor, I saw my damp shirt, and I recalled walking into the shower fully clothed. Shit…she’d helped me shower. She’d cleaned me up, helped me to my room…Why?

I had one crystal clear memory then, of saying, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

Even wasted I’d known she was just being nice to make sure I stayed silent. Well, I didn’t need her fake sympathies. I wasn’t going to tell him, because I had no desire to hurt him. I was inconsequential anyway. I was a tool she’d used when she’d needed something fixed. Nothing more. The hammer doesn’t complain when it’s put away after all the nails are driven. And the hammer doesn’t squeal to the screwdriver.

I stared at my dresser, but it was much too far away, so I leaned over to grab my dirty shirt off the floor. I thought I was going to lose my stomach bending over, but that was nothing compared to straightening back up. My damp shirt clenched in my fingers, I inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. I needed water. And coffee.

I pulled the fabric over my head; it was cold, and stuck to my body, making me shiver. I glanced at my jeans, but there was no way in hell I could get those back on. I was staying in my boxers, and my roommates would just have to deal with it. They had bigger issues than my outfit anyway. I wasn’t going to tell Denny anything, but I wondered if Kiera would. If she confessed, it would change things between Denny and me. He’d hate me. And he should hate me. I’d done exactly what he hadn’t wanted me to do. I’d just thought…I was sure Kiera…

It didn’t matter what I’d thought. Nothing mattered.

I slowly straightened. Each inch I moved brought a new ache, pain, or discomfort. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it downstairs, but what I needed was down there, so I had to try. Each step I took was slow and methodical. If I concentrated on my toes, everything else wasn’t so bad. I glanced at Denny and Kiera’s closed door, then returned my focus to my feet. My feet were all that existed right now. My feet would get me through the morning.

I shuffled to the kitchen, spied the table, and ached with the need to rest on it. Just for a minute. Just until the pain went away and my stomach settled. I carefully sat on a chair; I’d seen ninety-year-olds sit faster than I did, but there was a brief truce going on between my stomach and my head, and I didn’t want to disrupt the alliance by moving too fast.

When I was finally down, I hunched over the table, my head in my hands, and worked on breathing. In. Out. Repeat. Coffee was on my mind, but I didn’t want to move again. Not yet. Just a minute.

I wasn’t sure how long I sat at the table, taking long, careful breaths, but eventually Kiera stepped into the room. Perfect.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

Why was she shouting? “Yes,” I replied. I’m peachy.

“Coffee?” she asked.

I flinched, then nodded. Yes, please. Coffee was the whole reason I’d come down here.