But Gen doesn't hear it because she's halfway done with her beer and I wonder if she's trying to break some sort of record and now I'm just staring at her in total amazement at how much this broad can drink!
She slams the glass on the table, wipes her lips with the back of her forearm, grabs my wrist and basically orders me up: "We're dancing!" she says.
"But there's no dance floor!"
She drags me out. I stumble across the table because I'm squashed between it and the wall-seat and I hit my leg, effectively knocking her glass over—thank goodness it was empty—and she slams her crotch against me—
Whoa.
She takes her sweater off and throws it on the beer-covered table. "Is it hot in here?"
She puts her arms around my back and rests her head on my chest. I hold her. Her body's tiny and soft. Her scent wafts up into my mind...
I disappear.
I'm in a ballroom, dressed to kill in a tuxedo. My wife-to-be is in my arms, elegant and sparkling and smiling...
I shake myself awake!
Gen shouts and sings and the rest of the bar has joined in and everyone's singing Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison. It's not for her, we always sing that shit here. But she doesn't need to know that.
We bump against some tables because of the lack of a dance floor in this cramped-up pub and I sway my ever-growing bad-boy against her pelvis—
It's like being hit by lightning. I'm hot now. Very hot. And hard. So hard.
And I am so damned sober suddenly because all I see is this luscious brunette in front of me, her lips only inches from mine and all I can think about now is easing my hand down the small of her back until I hear that all-too familiar whimper in my ear. Then squeezing her ass, and lifting.
Still swaying, I ease my lips down toward her neck.
But she kisses me first. On the ear. Slowly.
And...um...very wetly? Like she was licking a bone of some sort...
Now that's a drunk-as-a-skunk kiss if I've ever seen one. Her tongue is all over me!
The mood is dead.
I can't help but chuckle. I push her away. Her pert breasts smile at me from behind her tee. Her nipples are hard, and very prominent, behind it.
I look away. It's official, the girl turns me on. But she's of a different caliber than Blondie Fuck-A-Lot.
Blondie Fuck-A-Lot would get drunk on purpose so as to enjoy a good, swaying lay, and then do it again in the morning.
Genny here...would seriously regret it in the morning.
I decide to let her have a good time. I know all about drinking your sorrows away.
Know it all too well.
It's been a while since I've had a drinking buddy.
Tonight I won't drink to numb shit. I'll drink because I'm damn well enjoying it.
I order a bottle of Bourbon. Frankie brings it over.
Nine shots later, Gen passes out on the seat with her head to the wall.
Ten minutes after that she's rushing to the bathroom and coming out looking like hell itself, the tiniest smudge of yellow liquid on her lips. When she gets next to me I wipe it off her with a napkin. She barely notices.
She falls asleep next to me.
Hours later, once I've sobered up enough to walk without needing a wall to lean on, and once I've slept half of it off myself, right here in the friendly pub with Gen sleeping on my shoulder, I try wake her to get her home.
She's still out.
I fling her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She's awfully light.
It's six P.M.
I carry her home.
-3-
As I look down at the dingy mattress on the floor of what looks like nothing much larger than a small walk-in closet, it dawns on me that I just assumed she was staying at this place. What if she's at a hotel? What if a friend is waiting for her? But she's totally passed out and I can't exactly ask her where she needs to be "dropped off."
No pun.
I consider taking her to my place but, considering that total freak-out earlier, I think that's a bad idea. She might jump out a window or something if she wakes up in a strange bed. Or next to me of all people! That's enough to send anyone running.
I kick away some underwear and a few other girly-clothing items from the mattress on the ground and lay her down on it. She moans and the moan sends need through every part of me.
It's a seductive, yearning moan.
Then, as only a drunk person can, she somehow grumbles about her clothing without using any words or even opening her eyes, and grumpily shucks off her pants and throws them next to her!
I'm staring now at a highly seductive set of legs in black pantyhose. I inhale deeply. She's really not helping things here.
I go over to the sorry excuse for a bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
This girl is definitely hot. Or maybe that's the booze talking. Has that ever stopped me? No, it hasn't...
I splash more cold water on my face.
Not working.
I go to the bedroom and check on Gen. She's still mumbling and groaning and having that restless sleep that drunken people usually get before they hurl it all out.
Right. So I have probably only a few minutes before she gets up for the first rush toward the toilet bowl.
I go back to the bathroom. I struggle to close the door because it's so small and can't even imagine closing it if I ever needed to do a number two in here. The door would just knock against my knees. Ah, you have to close it before sitting!
I take off my clothes and jump in the shower. I make sure the water is cold!
Then I remember I don't have my own towel and she'll probably be grossed out by some dude wiping his private parts with her towel. So, when I'm done, I towel myself off with my undershirt and put my bar-stinking clothes back on. I remind myself that the shower was to cool off, not to get clean. Because I see the irony of wiping myself dry with a used undershirt...
I walk through the cramped-up hallway back to the closet-slash-bedroom.
She's talking in her sleep.
"Axle, mmmmmm. Oh, baby. Mmmmm. Oh, yeah."
She. Is. Not. Helping! And the cold shower has officially lost this battle.
A drop of spittle falls from the corner of her mouth as she purrs in her sleep.
I find it adorable.
"OK, Ax, time to move on, buddy. Close your eyes and move on!" I say to myself.
She's lying on the comforter so I pick her up and kick it off the mattress with my foot. I lay her body down again and cover her.
I see she's got the radiator in here on five which is way too hot. She's probably not accustomed to German efficiency in heating, even in a shithole like this one, so she maybe thought she'd freeze all night if she didn't crank it up all the way. That, mixed with all the booze, and she'll have a hangover from hell because of the dehydration. I lower it to three.
I walk down to the kitchen and look for bottled water. I find some. What would a German household be without bottled water? I bring her up a bottle and put it next to her.
Oh, fuck it. I realize it's not the need of a cold shower, not the booze, not anything inane like that. The girl has allure. And that's that.
But I'll be damned if I treat her like the blonde bimbo I had in my bed last night. I don't know much about this girl, but I know she ain't that.
I bite my lip and exhale, shift my crotch over.
I might be an asshole to chicks. I know that. But if a girl ain't planning it before she's drunk, I ain't givin' it to her after.
I go downstairs. Her moans fill the space like the sounds of opera. I'm wiped. The booze has made my eyes heavy. How much did we drink again?
I laugh briefly, thinking about it.
I decide to sit down a second before the walk home. Just for a second.
I sit behind the velvety partition thingy which blocks people from looking into the kitchen from outside.
Maybe I'll just take a quick nap. Maybe an hour o
r so. Then I'll go home.
I put my back against the wall, stretch my legs out.
It's not comfortable, but I've slept in worse.
Much worse.
Compared to some of those places, this is like being at The Ritz.
CHAPTER 8
-1-
Gen
Nov. 11, 2013 — Monday
I'm delirious when I wake up.
I remember everything. Up to the point where I don't remember anything.
I know I was with that guy... What was his name?
My head is pounding. Oh, God, I need an aspirin.
Where am I?
I try open my eyes but the room lurches, goes blurry. I groan.
Please don't tell me I slept with him!
I feel the bed next to me. Empty. What is that dusty smell?
I groan again. This is so painful. What did I drink last night?
I see water. Oh, thank God! I down a third of the bottle. I'm so thirsty!
The sudden remembrance of black beer and creamy foam followed by wild howling shots of a brownish liquid makes me run into the bathroom and "Urrrrrghcpfah!"
I'm leaning over the toilet bowl. And it's also spin—
"Urghpflagh!"
The retching grabs my whole body and I feel like I'm gonna die. Man, I've never drunk that much in my life!
I lean back next to the toilet seat, rest my arm on it. I somehow establish that I'm still fully clothed. Sort of. I have a tee on and pantyhose. I smell myself and pick up the thick scent of tobacco from the bar mixed with B.O. from my armpits. It makes me retch again.
I take off my pantyhose and my tee. The smell is just too much to bear.
It wasn't only the clothes. My skin is clammy, remnants of bar-stink and sweat all over it. I take my bra off without even sniffing it. I take my panties off and fling them out into the hallway.
I moan.
I rub my stomach. I feel my scar.
No! I won't think about that now! I'm in too much pain today to think about it. So, no!
Not today.
Not today.
My head is resting on the tiled wall. I roll it left, right. I try and open my eyes to see the bathroom.
I close my eyes again...and I drift off, legs stretched out and toes pointing at the hallway.
-2-
I wake up again to hurl.
I hear something downstairs but I'm really in too much pain to be scared.
I crawl on all fours. I move in slamming agony across the hallway and look down the steps.
"Hello?" I ask. I even sound like a drunk.
And then a man's head appears, and he looks up at me.
"It's just me— Oh, God, sorry!" He looks away!
"Oh, shit!" My arm covers my breasts and I shoot back and hit a wall and "Oh, fucking damn that hurt." I groan some more and cover my crotch with my other hand even though the dude is not up on this floor. I should get out of the hallway. I should—
I start crawling, jackhammer nailing me with every step.
What was his name again?
He speaks from downstairs: "Gen, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"No, it's fine. It's—" I slam the bathroom door closed.
My underwear! Shit!
But, no, I'm not gonna get it now.
Oh, Christ.
I crawl up onto the bathtub edge and sit on it. I rest my head in my palm. I look at my toenails. I need a pedicure. Some of the nails are cracked, there's old polish on them, chipped away.
Yes, I'll paint my toenails today and file them down. Do my own pedicure.
That's a small step I can take.
"...coffee...?"
It's the man's voice, barely audible.
I stand up, almost falling. I open the door a crack. "Did you ask if I wanted coffee?"
"Yeah."
There's a pause as my slow mind processes this simple task...
Oh, right, of course I want coffee! "Um"—shit, my head hurts—"yeah, I'll take some. There's some instant—"
"Yeah, I found it."
I close the door and whisper to myself, "Thank goodness." The thought of explaining where the coffee is just seems like too much to face right now.
Suddenly I'm glad— Axle! Right, Axle was his name. A sexy, hard name.
Anyway, I'm glad he's here...somehow... My first friend in Germany.
But what is he doing here?
Did he take advantage of me yesterday?
If he did, I was asking for it. I only hope he used protection.
I wouldn't have a big thing on it if I didn't...like him so much. I mean, not "like" in that way. But, I'm kind of hoping he is a friend...
"Oh, Christ, Gen. Stop thinking and take a damn shower!"
I do.
Even the shower water feels like ice picks through my brain.
-3-
I look like shit in the mirror. But this isn't a romantic trip. So who cares.
I tie my shoulder-length hair in a ponytail and splash my face.
Then it hits me. My suitcase is still downstairs!
I wrap myself in a towel and peek out the door. The smell of instant coffee is in the air. It's not the same as filtered. But it smells good nonetheless.
I tip-toe to Brooke's bedroom and rummage through her closet. Suits aren't my thing.
I rummage through her dresser and find some sweatpants and a tee that says Keep Calm and Look Up. No, that's too forward. I find another that says Keep Calm and Use Your Hand.
Hell!
Finally I find the tank tops. I throw one on and then a simple sweater that's just a little too big for me. I put on the sweatpants.
I step out the room and do an about-face when I remember the horrible state of my toes. I find the sock drawer and rummage through the Disney characters until I find simple black socks.
I walk downstairs.
Axle's leaning against the kitchen counter, looking unimpressedly around at the walls and cupboards. There are scratches on everything and bits of wallpaper falling off in some spots.
He's holding a cup of coffee.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I fell asleep on the floor there and..."
"It's OK."
His chest bulges out from underneath his tee. He has his denim jacket on again, the one with the fur collar. I remember that he lent it to me. I remember how it smelled...
"Coffee's ready," he says, eying a pink mug next to him. "I don't know if you take cream or—"
"It's cool either way. Thank you."
I grab it a little too quickly, as if I were a dog grabbing a freaking cookie or something!
He puts his mug down. "I'm sorry, I should have just left after waking up."
"Huh?"
"I'll just be on my way."
"No, why?"
He looks at me blankly for a second. "I just thought... Well, never mind then!" He smiles, and his dimples cave in on his rough face. He picks his coffee up again, leans against the counter once more. Sips.
I do the same, on the opposite counter.
Neither of us looks at each other and the silence feels like thick, suffocating smoke.
The coffee's too hot. So I can't even pretend to drink it. "Thank you," I say again.
"You already thanked me." He gestures his cup toward me.
"I meant for the day out. What do I owe you?"
"Hmmm?"
"I don't remember leaving the pub. So, unless you robbed me, I assume you paid."
"No, I robbed you."
My stomach sinks. Knee-jerk reaction. I realize it was a joke. "No, but really, what do I owe you?"
His face goes serious for a second. He looks out into the gallery area. "Are you really going to make me tell you what you owe me? Last night was on me. Don't read anything into it."
I sense the irritation in his voice, as if he's been insulted. It's been so long since I've had a man do things for me without wanting something in return that I almost sabotage it when it happens.
"No,
no," I choke. "Thanks again."
"I fully appreciate the magnitude of your thanks and gratitude. Now stop thanking me."
I nod, look away.
I must sound like such an airhead. The way I'm going on the dude probably thinks I'm a frickin virgin or something. "So, do you only work at night?"
He pulls out a phone from his denims. "If this rings, I'm off to work."
"Oh. So you do work in the day."
"Is that a roundabout way of asking me what I do?"
"I guess. I just assumed...because of the Oktoberfest—"
"That I'm a bouncer."
"Yeah."
He laughs. "I do some security for extra money. Yeah. I'm off this week. But the real money comes from helping out on roofing and sometimes other general handy-man shit."
I nod a little too much.
He starts laughing at me.
"What?"
"You're either wondering how the handy-man type could pay for the amount of alcohol you consume, or you're too embarrassed to comment on my low stature. Did you expect me to say I work at the Frankfurt Stock Exchange?"
I crack up and feel my head exploding as I do it.
"No, I'm just..." I shake my head, not knowing what to say.
He changes the subject. "So, nice place."
"Very funny. It's not mine. It's a friend of mine's. She came up here to work after college and she gets to stay here for free."
"Hell, I think someone should be paying her to stay here."
"C'mon, it's not that bad."
He looks down, digs a toe into the linoleum. "No, it's not that bad. I was just kidding."
"Where do you stay?"
He flicks his head back. "A few minutes' walk from here. In a slightly less...affluent...area."
"You mean your place is smaller than this?"
His eyes go wide. "No, a kennel is bigger than this. My place is at least a little bigger."
I watch him looking at his coffee. I'm pretty certain nothing happened last night. Pretty certain. But I have to ask.
"Um, Axle, I'm sorry to ask this. Um, last night, did we—?"
"Nothing happened."
"What?"
Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1) Page 4