Page 34 of Drive Me Crazy
I narrow my eyes at her. Admitting how I feel means I’m putting it out into the universe and despite what my horoscope says, I’m not sure I’m ready to do that quite yet. Do I like spending time with Blake? Yes. Even though his favorite facial expression is a scowl, when he does smile? I swear it could end a war. He’s clever and always willing to have a debate with me. It doesn’t matter whether it’s over hot dogs being considered sandwiches (Theo’s question), Ronaldo being named the greatest footballer over Messi, or whichTaylor Swift album is the best—obviously1989 (Taylor’s Version).
Our conversations are easy, and we genuinely want to hear what the other one thinks. He’s surprisingly thoughtful, too, and even started keeping Double Stuf Oreos in his suite for when I need an emergency snack. And God knows we have enough chemistry to create anotherBreaking Badspin-off. But he’s made it crystal clear he doesn’t do relationships, and there’s no way I can just casually sleep with him. There’s no point in wanting to order something that’s not even on the menu.
“It’s obvious you have a crush on him,” she continues, adjusting the clip that’s holding back her hair. “And he likes you too.”
“Blake likes women in general,” I remind her.
“When’s the last time you saw him bring someone back?” She has a point. Blake and I pretty much spend all our free time together. I can lie and say it’s all for the book, but he went to Paris with me after the French Grand Prix to do a tour of the Jewish Quarters. He listened to the tour guide intently, asking thoughtful questions, even though he’s neither religious nor Jewish. That’s not the kind of stuff you do for an interview. That’s the kind of stuff you do with someone you want to spend time with.
Speak of the devil.
BLAKE HOLLIS
If you’re around, can we talk?
I’ve listened to Blake talk for the past three days and nothing he’s said has been nice. I toss my phone onto the couch. Out of sight, out of mind. Turning back to Josie, I hit her with my next Fuck, Marry, Kill combination.
“Fred Flintstone, Elmer Fudd, and Tony the Tiger.” If real-life men suck, may as well go with the fictional ones.
FIFTEEN
Blake
WAKING UP HUNGOVER IS BRUTAL. Waking up hungover because fifteen stones of pure muscle are pouncing on me? Bloody horrific. My head is pounding, my throat’s dry, and I have no idea whose bed I’m in. I open my eyes and see Theo’s face hovering over mine. I realize I’m in his.What the fuck?
“Good morning, sleeping beauty!” His voice is cheery and aggressively louder than necessary. “Do you know where you are?”
“It smells like shit, so probably your room.”
He ignores my jab—which isn’t even a real insult considering Theo’s a clean freak and his room smells like fresh laundry—and continues pestering me. “You practically had me breaking and entering last night, mate.”
A faint memory of dragging Theo to Ella’s room so I could apologize at 2:00 a.m. flashes through my mind.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble, mildly embarrassed. “I was a little drunk.”
“A little? You couldn’t make it back to your own room, so you crashed here.”
Fuck.I hadn’t meant to get so drunk. Well, I had. Anythingto numb the pain of the weekend. Even after placing P3, I’d still been in a piss-poor mood. One drink turned into four turned into a lot more. I knew there’d be hell to pay this morning for my decisions, but I didn’t care too much last night. I let the liquor flow through my veins like I was on an IV drip. I’m sure my phone is full of texts and missed calls from Keith and Marion yelling at me for being publicly intoxicated.
I haven’t had an anxiety attack in months, yet I found myself doubled over and gasping for air an hour before my first practice on Friday. This weekend always reopens a lot of old wounds.
One cup of coffee and a hot shower later, I’m standing awkwardly outside Ella’s room. My knock is so weak, I’m surprised when she opens the door. Instead of her usual over-sized T-shirt, she’s in a form-fitting workout top. I manage to keep my eyes trained on her face, not wanting to piss her off even more by staring at her cleavage. The look she’s giving me is hard to interpret. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed, pleased, or indifferent.
“Uh, hi,” I say, a stammer rising in my throat as I speak. She opens the door, leaving enough space for me to walk in. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” She quickly throws on a sweatshirt before sitting on the couch. “Banging on my door at two in the morning or PMSing?”
“PMSing?”
I sit on the couch next to her and place my drink on the coffee table. Why didn’t I think to bring her a coffee as a gesture of good faith?
Her dark brows rise ever so slightly. “It’s when a girl’s on her—”
“Christ, Ella, I know what PMSing is,” I quickly interrupt her.
“Okay, well, it sounded nicer than ‘your nasty attitude andextremely rude behavior.’”
“PMSing it is.” I shuffle my feet against the carpeted floor. “I was unacceptably rude to you, and I’m sorry for that.”
