“Okay, okay…” she slurs. I could always hold my shit better than her. “But why are you living with that guy? I mean, you could have just come back to our room.”

I don’t answer, instead, swishing my last gulp of beer around my mouth without making eye contact. At the time, going back to live with Cass felt impossible. But now that I’m where I am—living with Houston—I think the impossible with Cass may have been smarter. Harder, perhaps, but definitely smarter.

“I have to pee,” I say, leaving my sister without an answer.

Sally’s happy hour during the middle of the week is…interesting. The college crowd is usually a mix of freshmen that look nothing like their fake IDs, and grad students more than ready to help freshmen girls get drunk. Add onto that the really creepy old guys who are waiting to give a girl a ride home, and it’s a bad mix. I may be drunk, but I’ll never be that drunk.

The line for the women’s bathroom is wrapping down the hallway and out the back door. By the time I get to the end, I’m actually near the trash bins where a guy is peeing in the alley. I cover my nose with my long sleeve and retrace my path back inside. The men’s room door is closed. No line. There’s never a fucking line here.

I look around, then duck inside. There’s only one stall, but I’ve been in worse bathrooms, especially at the beach. I’m careful not to touch anything, washing my hands and grabbing a fistful of towels to turn off the faucet and open and close the door as I leave the restroom.

“I saw that,” he says, scaring me so badly I swing at him, punching him in the gut.

“Fuck, who does that?” I say, holding my other hand on my heart. It’s beating wildly. My head is spinning, and it takes me a second to regain my bearings. Part of it’s the shots, but most of it is the adrenaline from having the shit scared out of me. Houston is bent in half, coughing.

“Punches the guy they’re living with? I know…who does that?” he grunts, still a little out of breath.

“I hit you hard,” I say, now noticing the tightness in my knuckles. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually punched someone. I flex my fingers in and out, and they tingle.

He brings his gaze up, his hand flat against the wall next to me, and for a second his eyes pause on mine.

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“Yeah…you did,” he says.

A few more seconds pass of him looking at me—me looking at him, and things begin to feel weird. Good. I can’t feel good being this close to him. And his breath is tickling my face. And it smells…good. He smells good. I need to get back to my table. I’m about to dodge beneath his arm, when his lip curves up on one side.

His hand is still next to me, his fingers rapping once along the wall. I clear my throat and adjust my posture. Houston’s head falls forward and he pushes back, stepping in the opposite direction, clearing room for my escape.

Thank god!

I make it most of the way back to the table I’m sharing with my sister, when I notice Houston is only a step or two behind me. Spinning fast, I lose my balance, and he catches me by my elbows, his grip on my arms steady—fast. His hands are strong, and I get caught up looking at them, at his arms. Shaking my head, I shirk his grip.

“I’m fine!” I yell, causing a few people sitting at tables near us to turn and look at me. I stretch my arms out in a WTF stance, and they all turn around, back to their own conversations. “You!” I point at him. I’m expecting him to be shocked, to start in with his defensive mode, but instead he smirks again—that same cocked-lip smile that had me feeling dizzy in the hallway by the bathroom. “You were not invited. I disinvited you!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I don’t work that way. You know, taking orders from you?” Houston says, folding his arms, the black shirt he’s wearing stretching tight along his chest. And then I see his arms, and I get lost again. Until he dips his head lower, catching my gaze, and snapping me out of this stupid puppy-crush I seem to suddenly have on his hot arms.

Shit. He has hot arms.

I’m drunk; that’s all. I’m just a little buzzed, and I’m feeling it.

“Dude, you made it. We have a pitcher, come on over,” Ty says, pushing past us toward the table we’ve taken over in the corner of Sally’s. He begins to pour a beer for Houston, but stops short of full when Houston holds his hand up.

“Thanks, man. But I’m sticking with water tonight. I’ve got…some things,” he says, and I laugh under my breath. He has things, like a kid. His head twists fast to look at me, and his eyebrow cocks.




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