by Aly Martinez
Leo flips on the large flat-screen mounted over the fireplace. He doesn’t say a word, but his body is relaxed as he drops his arm around my shoulders. It’s a far cry from my tense posture, but it’s infectious. My nerves calm as he begins drawing circles on my shoulder with his fingertips.
We must sit like that for at least half an hour. He finds some silly reality dating show and we simultaneously start making fun of the contestants. He seems to have the same sarcastic sense of humor I do, and just when I thought he was maxed on out the sexy scale, Leo becomes sexier.
"What the hell is wrong with her? She has known him for, like, ten minutes and she’s already sobbing that he didn’t pick her. She’s cute. Can’t she meet guys at a bar where she could get drunk and embarrass herself in private?" I ask while we watch the woman melt down on the TV.
"She might be cute, but she has crazy eyes. Any guy in a fifty-foot radius could tell she is crazy as all hell. The kind that would light your clothes on fire for picking her up five minutes late," he answers, and my body immediately goes stiff.
In other words, me.
He must feel me tense because he gives me a strangely reassuring squeeze and changes the subject. It’s confusing, but I’m so appreciative that I don’t bother to question it.
"Do you like sports?" He flips the TV to ESPN and I can’t help but laugh.
"Um, no." I look up to find him watching me intently. His brown eyes render me unable to look away.
"Good," he responds as his eyes flash to my mouth. "Then I’ll leave it on this channel." He whispers his lips across mine. Then he leans away to catch my eyes, seemingly to gauge my reaction to his advance, but I give him nothing. My expression is blank. It’s not a façade. I don’t know how I feel about it, but his eyes draw me in.
However, a sharp pain in my stomach stops me in my tracks.
"Oh my God! I’m going to puke!" I jump off the couch and sprint to the bathroom.
"Well, that’s new." He follows me to the door, which I didn’t bother shutting in my race to the porcelain.
I violently expel the contents of my stomach into the toilet, only vaguely aware that Leo is in the room. I would love to be embarrassed, but my stomach is knotting to the point where I’m not sure I will survive. Leo who?
"I’m sorry," I manage to say between the heaves. I know he’s somewhere in the vicinity. He’s not touching me, but I can feel his presence.
"Oh shit," he groans as I hear his footsteps stumble from the bathroom. Well, okay then.
For what seems like seven years—maybe longer—I sit, dying on his bathroom floor. I have absolutely no grasp of time, nor can I move. I can’t even bring myself to be embarrassed that I’m puking in the lavish bathroom of a man I barely even know. All I know is that I need to start praying. I may not be a religious woman, but if I ever needed the Lord, it would be now.
"Sarah!" I hear Leo’s gravelly voice shout from somewhere in the distance. But if he is expecting me to come to him, he might as well be in Antarctica.
"Yeah," I barely squeak out with my head resting on the toilet seat. And just when I thought I couldn’t get any more desirable to a man, I’m hugging his toilet.
"Are you okay?" he asks with concern filling his voice, but the sound of him throwing up rings through the air.
"No," I answer honestly.
"Me either," he responds before throwing up again.
I’m assuming he’s in another bathroom down the hall, but another pain hits my stomach in epic proportions.
"I think we have food poisoning," he growls.
"I hate you," I say to my stomach, the toilet, and Leo all at exactly the same time, but none of them answer.
Fifteen years later, I fall asleep with sweat covering my face and vomit lingering on my tongue. The cool tile floor is my only comfort.
"SHH," I hear whispered as I’m lifted off the floor.
My head falls back over his strong arm and my legs dangle loosely in his grasp. The devil himself could be carrying me to Hell and I wouldn’t care, but thankfully for me, it’s Leo’s voice in my ear.
"I…" I try to fire off some random thought, but it only rouses me further from sleep, making me wish I could rush back to the bathroom.
"Shh," he repeats, depositing me on a plush bed. "Bucket on the side," are his only real words as he settles beside me.
I reach a hand over to become acquainted with the plastic rim of my new friend, the trash can, then drift off to sleep.
"EXPLAIN THE note, Leo!" Slate roars.
"Get the fuck out of my apartment!" I shout right back at him while searching through my room for my phone and wallet.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
"Were you just going to leave that shit for her? Let her stumble upon it the day before we got married? Goddamn it, Leo. Fucking talk to me!" He steps up, preventing me from leaving the room. As the former heavyweight champion of the world, Slate isn’t exactly someone you can just ignore.
"Jesus Christ, it’s not what you think," I lie. "I was just having a bad day and needed to put a few things down on paper."
"Bullshit. You were saying goodbye to her," he snarls, and I feel the rage rolling off him.
I know he would never want anything to happen to me, but that is not where his concern is aimed. He’s pissed right now at the idea that I might do something that would hurt Erica. And I respect the hell out of him for that.
"What do you want me to say here?" I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why the fuck are you going through my shit, anyway?"
"Because when I got here this morning, you had been on a three-day bender and I was fucking worried." He sucks in a calming breath and cracks his neck. It takes a few seconds for him to push it all down, but he finally looks me in the eye and asks, "Now please explain the note."
I let out a resigned sigh. "I’m drowning."
"Right. I got that," he answers.
"No, you don’t understand. When I had Erica, my goal in life was to keep her safe and make her happy. I spent every minute of the day focusing on her. Trying to make some sort of amends for what I did to her. But now she’s gone, and I feel like I am dying."
He blinks at me for a few seconds. "Leo, I’ve never felt the need to ask this before, but right now, I’m really fucking confused. Are you in love with Erica?"
"Oh for fuck’s sake." I push past him out of my bedroom and head to the rec room, where I think I left my wallet last night. "See, this is the bullshit I get for trying to talk to someone!" I shout over my shoulder with a sarcastic laugh.
"Well, you’re not making any sense."
I pause and spin around to face him. "My life doesn’t make sense. No, I’m not in love with Erica. I have never once looked at her like that. Yes, I love her, and in some sick way, she is the only family I have left. But you can rest easy, big man. I’m not in love with your fiancée," I say humorlessly.
"Then what is the big issue with her being gone?"
"She was my distraction!" I shout. "I spent the last four years trying to make her better, but now, she’s gone and the choices I’ve made flash like neon lights around me. I can’t focus on anything else. I was wrong. I thought seeing her happy and moving on would release me. It didn’t though—it made it worse. I fucking hate myself. I let an innocent woman be raped—repeatedly."
I know my words have made their way under his skin, but he still manages to grit out from between clenched teeth, "You had no choice."
"Bullshit. Everyone has a choice. I should have let them kill me."
"They would have killed her! Get your God damn head straight. I fucking hate you for what you did—or, rather, didn’t do—but she made it out alive. You saved her on more than one occasion. Consider your penance paid!"
"It’s not enough. I can’t live like this."
"So, what? You’re now planning to kill yourself? You think that would help Erica?"
"No, but it would help me!" I scream.
"Leo," I hear Erica squeak fr
om behind me.
Fuck.
"I have to get out of here." I walk past her, not even able to look her in the eye after what I know she just heard.
I pass Johnson, who’s standing at the door. He’s no doubt the asshole who let Slate up here today. Then I rush down the back stairs until I hit the parking garage only to realize I never found my keys or wallet.
The door swings open behind me and I steel myself for more of Slate and Erica. But it’s Johnson who comes leisurely strolling out, immediately lighting a cigarette.
"Come on, boss. I’ll take you wherever you want to go." He walks over to an immaculately restored muscle car.
"Shit. Thank you." I climb into the passenger’s side, not sure where I’m planning to go. This is the first time I’ve ever actually wanted to run from Erica.
I HAVE been hit by a car—no, it was definitely a truck. That is the only thing I can imagine to explain why my whole body aches. As my stomach lets out a low rumble, last night comes rushing back to my memory. Food poisoning. Shit...
"Sarah," I groan just as her phone starts ringing.
I glance over at the clock to see that it’s well past two p.m., but with most of our night spent throwing up, I’m not even the slightest bit surprised that we slept all day.
Sarah blindly feels around the floor for her phone before finally answering it.
"Hello," she croaks, and I can hear a woman on the other end of the line start laughing. "Emma, hush," she pleads, pulling it away from her ear and looking for the volume button on the side of her pink iPhone.
"So how’d it go with Leo last night after y’all left?" I hear Emma ask just as Sarah puts the phone back to her ear.
"Not good. He tried to kill me," she responds, throwing an arm over her forehead.
"What?" Emma yells.
"I didn’t try to kill you," I moan as I try to sit up.
"Oh my God. You’re still with him!" Emma shrieks. Even though Sarah turned the volume down, I can still hear her reaction clear as a bell.
"It’s not what you think. Apparently, Leo’s idea of celebrating is giving me food poisoning."
"Hey, if it had been intentional, I definitely would not have given it to myself too." I stretch my aching muscles before dragging myself to the kitchen.
I fight down the nausea as I open the fridge. Yeah, food is officially off the menu for today. After grabbing a bottle of Gatorade, I pause only to snag two glasses on my way back to the bedroom.
"I’ll call you when I’m ready. I honestly don’t think I can move right now," Sarah tells Emma as I set a glass down the nightstand. "Okay, bye." She hangs up and curls her lip at the Gatorade as I pour it. "There is no way I’m drinking that."
"Come on. You have to be dehydrated. How are you feeling?" I ask, sitting down on the bed next to her.
"Terrible. My whole body is sore. What did you do to me?"
None of the things I wanted to do. That’s for sure.
Luckily, I manage to keep that little tidbit to myself and reply, "Jesus, I’m so sorry."
"This might very well be the worst first date in history." She gives me a weak smile.
"I’m encouraged that you only said ‘might’ because I can’t imagine it going any worse." I lean back as she slides over to make more room. I don’t even have enough energy to walk around to the other side.
"I only said ‘might’ because you carried me to bed and didn’t let me sleep on the bathroom floor," she teases with a warm and sleepy smile.
"Well, at least there’s that." I smile back. "So, I need to shower. Since I’m relatively sure neither one of us has big plans for the day, why don’t you hang out here? I’ll get you a toothbrush and some clothes and we can watch movies on the big couch in the rec room. I won’t even offer to feed you."
"Oh God, don’t even mention food," she groans and covers her mouth.
"No food, I swear. Just you, me, Gatorade, and bad eighties movies." I reach over to grab her hand. It must catch her off guard, because her eyes snap to mine. I squeeze tight, refusing to release it. "I’ve never had a woman puke to avoid kissing me. You owe me."
"I owe you?" she asks amused.
"Yes, you owe me some serious hand-holding for the way you behaved last night."
"Excuse me?" She sits up only to regret the sudden movement.
I chuckle to myself as she clenches her stomach and slowly leans back on the bed. Then I take the opportunity to slide an arm under her and inch over closer.
"Okay, okay. We can cuddle if you insist." I curl her in my arms as she huffs. I can tell she’s not really annoyed when she relaxes into my side. "So, what do you say? You want to hang out and commiserate with me?"
"Sorry. I don’t like green Gatorade," she responds with a shrug.
"I have red too." I toss her a wink, knowing good and damn well she is making excuses.
"I don’t like ‘eighties movies," she states, flashing me a smile.
Shit. Her smile.
"Fine. We can watch whatever you like. But, just so you know, that’s a serious issue we are going to have to discuss at a later date."
"Who says there is going to be a later date?" she asks, and her smile grows to full blown. "I don’t like you." She bites her lips to contain a laugh, a task I’m learning she is terrible at.
"Oh come on. Now you are just being ridiculous. You like me. You jumped right into my bed on the first date," I tease even though I feel like absolute hell, and the sound of her laughter soothes me as it flitters around us.
"I did not! You carried me to your bed."
"Oh look. We are right back where this conversation started. I carried you to bed, so now you are going to reward my chivalry by spending the day with me." I slowly push up to my feet. My stomach cramps, but I forge ahead to the dresser.
"Here." I pull out a T-shirt and a pair of sweats and toss them onto the bed next to her. They won’t fit her, but that is probably for the best. I’m in no condition to even entertain thoughts of sex, but for some reason, I can’t stop them from flooding my head.
Even after spending the entire night in the least appealing way possible, Sarah Erickson is fucking sexy as hell. She should’ve woken up this morning looking like a troll who’d spent the night drowning in the rain. But with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and her eye makeup slightly smeared, she still oozes sex appeal. Yes, she is beautiful. But her lithe body makes her every move sensual. She tries to play coy, as if she is intimidated by her own overwhelming confidence—the same confidence that makes my dick hard every time I even look in her direction.
"You can use my bathroom. I’ll use the one in the guest room. Towels are under the sink." I say, swinging my own T-shirt and shorts over my shoulder. "Oh, and call Mama Erickson back and tell her I’ll bring you home tonight," I order as I walk from the room.
Sarah doesn’t actually agree to stay, but she doesn’t argue anymore either. That’s more than enough for me.
"I’M NOT watching Vision Quest," Sarah declares while lying on the couch.
"Yes, you are. I’ve had a ridiculously shitty twenty-four hours. Last night, I took a woman on a date and she gave me the stomach flu."
"It’s not the stomach flu! It’s food poisoning from the restaurant you insisted we go to." She laughs weakly then covers her mouth at the very mention of dinner.
"You say potato, I say—"
"Food poisoning," she cuts me off with another groan.
"Okay, fine. I give up. What do you want to watch?" I ask.
We’re lying on opposite ends of the couch; our legs are tangled in the middle. I inch down to get closer. I’ve given it a seriously less than mediocre effort, but I can't seem to stop touching her. It’s just something about the way every connection sends a spark of electricity through… Okay, fine. She makes me hard. Every. Single. Time. I feel like death warmed over, but every time her foot brushes up my leg, even inadvertently, I go stiff.
Sarah Erickson is phenomenal dressed up and flirting over
a meal, but surprisingly enough, she’s pretty freaking amazing in baggy sweats while laid up on my couch too.
"Vanilla Sky," she answers.
I curl my lip in disgust. "Is that a movie or flavor of ice cream?"
"Oh my God. Food. I hate you." She starts kicking me while holding her stomach. "It’s a movie."
"I’ve never even heard of it."
"Really? It has Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz in it. I’m sure you remember seeing the old clips where Cameron Diaz goes off about swallowing Tom’s come."
"What the hell kind of movie is this?" I ask, surprised, and she begins to quietly giggle. "I had no idea Cameron Diaz did porn. I’m seriously out of the loop."
"Oh my God! It’s not porn, Leo. It’s an amazing, thought-provoking, beautifully filmed emotional rollercoaster." She smiles and it lights her already bright, blue eyes.
"Well, in that case, it definitely sounded more interesting when I thought it was porn. Thought provoking just means I’ll spend half the movie confused. And beautifully filmed means I’m going to spend the other half watching sunsets in either slow motion or fast forward."
"Oh, please tell me you are not one of those guys who only watches movies like Transformers and Batman." She slaps a hand over her eyes.
"Hey! What’s wrong with Batman?"
"I didn’t think it was possible for you to become any less attractive after last night," she says, tangling her legs tighter with mine.
"Liar." I smirk and grab the remote, flipping through the on-demand movies. "Okay, let’s see if we can find this Vanilla Ice Cream porno you are so eager to watch. But…you have to come over here by me if you want me to watch this crap."
"It’s not crap. I love this movie," she responds as I press play.