#Junkie (GearShark #1)(3)

No reaction.

I felt nothing. No need. No excitement. My cock wasn’t even stirring in my jeans.

I pushed off her abruptly, and she blinked.

“Let’s go to your room,” she purred and brushed the back of her hand along my fly.

Suddenly, the entire world turned on its side, and I rushed away, over to the grass, where I immediately fell onto my knees and started puking.

Aaannnd that would explain the lack of excitement a few minutes ago.

Beer before liquor, never been sicker.

I retched a few more times, bringing up way more alcohol than I remembered drinking, and then sank back onto my haunches and wiped my face with the hem of my T-shirt.

My head was fuzzy, my insides shaken. Then I remembered the girl. I turned around to tell her I’d be fine in a few, but she was gone.

Guess my puking hadn’t been much of a turn-on.

Not that she had been either. Hell. First time I’d ever gone from making out to vomiting in two seconds flat.

Clearly, she wasn’t my type.

I laughed out loud. That was f*cking hilarious.

I was still laughing when two jean-clad legs appeared before me. “What the f*ck are you doing?” Drew asked, glaring down at me like I’d lost my mind.

“I was trying to get laid. She wasn’t my type.” I started laughing again.

“What was your first clue? The barf? Or maybe the fact that she left you out here to pass out in your own mess?”

“I’m not passed out,” I protested.

He made a sound. “Not yet.” Drew’s hands slid under my arms and he pulled me to my feet. I swayed like a hammock on a breezy beach, and his grip tightened. “How much did you f*cking drink?”

“Don’t know,” I slurred.

“C’mon. Party’s over. We’re going home.”

“This ain’t my home,” I said, disgruntled.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he slid an arm around my waist and started leading me around the house, not back inside. I went along without a word because honestly, I didn’t care where he was taking me.

He smelled good.

“Wait,” I groaned and practically fell over and started puking again.

Drew muttered a few curse words as I retched but stayed right there standing over me, like he was keeping watch.

When I was done and my ribs ached from the heaving, he hauled me back up and led me toward the street where his vintage ‘69 Mustang was parked.

“This ain’t my room,” I said.

“I’m not leaving you here this drunk, *,” Drew said and yanked open the passenger door. “Who the f*ck knows what the dickheads inside would do to you while you’re out?”

I sank into the seat and leaned my head back with a groan.

The next thing I knew, we were sitting outside Drew’s place and he was pocketing the keys. I fumbled with the handle, trying to get it open.

“Hang on,” Drew said, but I didn’t listen. I managed to fling open the door and fall out onto the driveway.

“Ow,” I grumped.

“Moron,” Drew said above me, and for the third time that night, he helped me up off the ground.

“Do me a favor and don’t wake up the entire house on the way in,” he bitched.

“You sound like a damn woman,” I mocked.

My feet didn’t work too good going up the stairs, but somehow, I made it. We stumbled into Drew’s room, and he shut the door behind us. I fell onto the bed backward, flinging out both my arms and staring up at the darkened ceiling.

Drew was moving around, and I turned my head to watch him bend forward to pull off his shoes. Next, he slid the black leather jacket he’d been wearing down his arms and flung it onto his dresser.

I became mesmerized by his movements. Everything else was blurry and unfocused, but he wasn’t. I could see him clearly.

He had a long torso, lean and firm. The way the waffle knit tee he wore clung to his frame seemed like the most interesting thing I’d seen in a long time. I watched him straighten and turn, shove his hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

His long fingers pulled back out, a wallet clutched between them, and he tossed that onto the dresser, too.

His hips were narrow and his legs were long and lean. He looked good in the jeans. They weren’t too tight, but they weren’t baggy either.

His feet were bare. I didn’t know where his socks went, but I didn’t care. That patch of bare skin—even on his feet—made my mouth go dry.

Or maybe I was just dehydrated.

“I need water,” I said abruptly and pushed up off the mattress. My sudden movement caused a wave of nausea, and I lurched forward.

Drew was ready, and just as I started barfing, a trashcan appeared under me.

How the hell was there anything left inside me to puke up? I felt like I’d been puking for hours, and I was so spent I couldn’t even hold the trashcan.

Drew held it for me.

He stood there silently, holding the can in front of my hunched-over form while I heaved and made sounds I hoped to never hear again.

Even after I stopped, he stood there, holding it, making sure I was completely done before he moved back.

“I’m good,” I said weakly after a few long moments and turned my face away.

His large palm fell against my back and patted twice before settling against my shirt. That single touch left me feeling a little more grounded, a little less shaky and in danger of literally passing out right there.