Page 36 of Demo
I looked down and saw my morning wood standing at full attention.
“Shit!” I scrambled off the bed in search of my pants. Or briefs. Or ANYTHING. I grabbed a used towel off the floor and, as disgusting as it was, wrapped it around my waist.
Lizzie was sitting up, her legs flung over the side of the bed, as she rubbed her temple with one hand. “What the fuck?” she groaned.
“Yeah … I’m a little, uh, foggy, myself.” I came around the side of the bed and stood in front of her, careful not to crowd her space. “Are you, um … Do you feel OK? I mean …” Shit this was awkward.
“Did we …?” Lizzie stood up, draping the sheet around her, and again I didn’t tell her there was a wet stain on it. She didn’t need to know.
“Um …” I scratched the back of my neck.
She gawked at me, and I could see the black makeup stuck in the creases under her eyes. Her hair was an absolute wild mess. And I could totally see her nipples behind the sheet. If my brain weren’t thumping out of my skull, I would have been tempted to take her right there.
But then I felt like shit because we probably had sex, and it would have been our first time and I didn't even remember it.
“Lizzie, I’m not really sure if, or what, we did. Do you feel, you know … Are you sore or anything?”
She looked at me incredulously and I felt stupid. “Look,Thor. I can tell you’re well endowed,” she said as she gestured toward my appendage that was, yep, still erect. “But if you think that after how much we drank last night and how I’m feeling right now that I’m going to be able to tell if you penetrated me, well—”
She stopped abruptly, and just when I thought it was because she hated me, and I was an asshole, she heaved and blew chunks all over. Folding over at the waist she emptied out her stomach while I pulled her hair back and rubbed her shoulders.
“Yep, there’s the pink punch again,” I said, and that got a groan out of her.
“Why? WHY did we drink the punch?” she asked as she wiped her mouth with the sheet.
“You did warn against it,” I replied.
I saw her still, then reach under the bed and pull out a condom wrapper. “Well, at least we were smart about it,” she said as she stood up.
“If that’s even ours,” I retorted, and she dropped the wrapper with a shiver and wiped her hand on the sheet.
We stood there awkwardly for a beat, me wrapped in a soiled towel and her wrapped in a dirty sheet, until I couldn’t stand the few feet of distance between us anymore.
“Hey,” I said as I stepped toward her. “The only regret I have is not being able to remember our first time.Ifthat’s what happened. You deserve better,” I said as I wiped a knuckle across her cheek bone.
“No, I don’t,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t deserve better because I was a drunken fool last night.” Placing her hand over mine on her cheek, she added, “I have no regrets, either. Well, except maybe the punch. Yeah, I definitely regret the punch.”
That made my heart swell. “Really?” I asked.
“Really.”
She gave me googly eyes and started to lean in, then stopped and said, “I’d kiss you right now, but I have puke breath.”
That made us both laugh. I pulled her in to kiss the top of her head. “Let’s find something to wear and get breakfast. Pancakes will help soak up the alcohol in our stomachs.”
“Deal,” she said, looking around the floor for our clothes.
We never did find them. Instead, we stole some from the dresser in the bedroom, and when we entered the nearest diner, she was wearing a pair of men’s sweatpants rolled up at the waist and a white T-shirt, with no bra. I was wearing a lumberjack-looking flannel shirt and blue checkered pajama pants.
We looked absolutely ridiculous as we ate blueberry pancakes and Belgian waffles covered in chocolate syrup and drank gallons of orange juice, water and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
Chapter 11
LYZBETH
Afterafewdaysof hibernation, I can’t take it anymore and decide I need to get out of the damn apartment, so I slip on sneakers and, still wearing black yoga pants that I haven’t taken off in two days, and a Kings of Leon concert T-shirt, I venture out into the world.
I find myself on the street where Jerome King was shot, trying to remember that day. I can picture the clustering of cops, the white sheet draped over his body on the grass, the bystanders pressing into the yellow caution tape that cordoned off the area.
