You'd Be Mine(32)

I follow him to his room, and he swipes the key card with a click. “Sorry for the mess.”

I take in the rumpled bed linens and the clothes draped over the chair in the corner. He tosses his card on the table and reaches into his cabinet, pulling out several bottles and two glass tumblers.

“What do you like?”

I tilt my head, thinking. “I tried one of each tonight. Tequila made me want to barf the least.”

He laughs, and the hairs on my arms raise. Even his laugh is rich and musical. “Jose Cuervo it is, then.” He reaches into his fridge and pulls out a lime. Then he reaches into a takeout bag and tosses some salt packets on the table. “It’s pretty redneck, but we’re all country singers here, right?”

I grin as he tries to cut the lime with a plastic knife. I point to the pocketknife at his waist and then feel my face get hot as his shirt lifts and exposes his toned middle when he pulls it from his belt. He cuts the lime into wedges and passes me a few.

“First, lick your wrist, like so.”

I watch, rapt, as his tongue darts out to wet his wrist. My breath is dangerously close to panting, and I can’t help but remember Jason’s teasing me about finding my lady parts when I first heard Clay’s sound check at the start of the tour.

The damned things are basically humming their approval right now.

He raises a brow, and I quickly imitate him, feeling stupid licking myself.

“Then you shake a little salt on your wrist.” He shakes some from one of the packets, and I do the same, spilling more than a little on the table. He pours a shot into my tumbler and passes it to me.

“So lick, drink, suck,” he says. I bite my lip and nod. His eyes follow my mouth, and I try not to pass out.

Some part of me—we’ll call her Reason—is screaming.

“On my count,” he’s saying.

Lick, drink, suck.

It’s actually sort of delicious. Way better than drinking straight from the bottle. I slam my drink down and almost laugh, but still, I remember. Calling the police in hysterics and forgetting my own address and having to run out in the street to check the mailbox in my bare feet, nearly dropping my phone in the dirt. Throwing up against the giant oak tree in our front yard until my ribs felt like they would crack apart.

“I still see them,” I gasp, shaking my head. “I need to do it again. It’s not working yet.”

Clay nods seriously. “Okay, but I should warn you, if this is your first time, you’re dangerously close to getting sick.”

“Are you doing this with me or not?” I ask, feeling a little angry at his misplaced rationale. “Because I’ll just take this back to my room alone if you’re going to preach at me.”

Clay watches my face and then pours another glass. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

I lick my arm without waiting for him this time. “I didn’t ask you.”

“To outdrinking our demons,” he says, holding up his glass.

For a moment, our eyes meet, and it’s as though something long buried inside of me recognizes a similar something long buried inside of him. I open my mouth as though to ask him about his demons or maybe to spill all of mine. It lingers in the air between us, tangible and warm. His hand is still hovering, though, and instead, I clink his glass with mine and pour it back.

This time, the dizziness is real. I slip out of the chair at the table and crawl over to lean against his bed. He grabs the bottle and moves to sit next to me. His long legs stretch out close to mine, and I tap my boot-clad toes together, watching as they blur.

“I was the one who found them,” I say slowly. I’m trying not to slur, but my tongue feels thick and tired.

“Christ. How old were you? Twelve?”

“Thirteen. It was a few days after I turned thirteen.”

“That’s plenty messed up.”

I snicker humorlessly. “Yep.”

We sit in the silence, and my head sinks to his shoulder. He smells so good. I turn my face and inhale. He doesn’t say anything.

“I still see them in my head. Lying there, all gray and bloody. I can’t…” I shake my head back and forth again. “I can’t get it out of my brain. I can’t unsee it.”

“Why are you alone tonight? Where’s your cousin?”

“Making sweet fiddler love with Fitz.”

He snorts, and my head bounces on his shoulder. I swear I’ve never felt anything softer than this boy’s shoulder in all my life.

“What about Diaz?”

“He found groupies.” I inhale again, nuzzling his shirt. “They forgot it was today.”

“And you didn’t remind them? And then decided to get drunk alone?”

I shrug and lift my head, rolling it back to stare at the ceiling. “If a girl gets drunk in her hotel room alone, and no one sees it, did it really happen?”

“Ah. But I ran into you on the elevator.”

“I don’t drink.”

“You’ve mentioned that already.”

“My parents were junkies. Addicted to each other and to getting high.”

“I don’t think you’re going to turn into a junkie after one night, Annie. In fact,” Clay says softly, “I’m pretty sure you’ll regret this in the morning.”