Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Oh, fuck,” he says.
He stops pouring, and as he tries to set the soda on the counter, it falls over sideways and continues spilling onto the floor. He doesn’t notice because he’s too busy looking for paper towels for what was a very little mess compared to what he’s started.
Just get out of here, I tell myself.
But I can’t leave him like this.
I hurry past him, pick the bottle up, and set it on the counter.
He turns, and looks around as he appears to be making sense of what just happened.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he says.
“Don’t worry, I got it.”
I grab a dish towel from a basket on the counter and throw it on the puddle of ginger ale on the tile floor. Mark gets a roll of paper towels that lies on its side beside the kitchen sink. He unrolls it, using far too much to pat down what little managed to collect on the counter. He tries to tear off the towels but ends up pulling more from it.
I take the paper towels from him and tear the bundle he’s collected from the rest, managing to save less than a quarter of the roll.
“Thanks,” he mutters as he cleans up the mess and stumbles to the trash can.
Considering how I just helped him, it irritates me that he’s acting weird like this. But with the night he’s had, I can forgive it.
“Do you need me to call you an Uber?” I ask.
He stands still, staring at the trash can, like he’s considering my offer.
“Come on,” I say.
I put my arm around him—not because we’re pals, but because he needs someone to drag him out of here. I help him to the front door.
“Do you have anything here you need to grab before you go?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay, okay.”
I lead him out the door and into the driveway before retrieving my phone and pulling up the Uber app.
“No, use my phone,” he insists. He reaches into his pocket. I’m guessing he doesn’t want my card to be charged for this.
“It’s not dinner. Chill the fuck out. Just get me a drink or something another night. Deal?”
“Deal.” He sounds defeated. Resigned. Like he did the first night we hooked up.
As I start to look for a car on the app, I hear behind me, “Mark?!”
I turn and see Greg heading out of the house. He looks concerned as he starts toward us. I figure he’s worried about his ex being around the notorious school dealer with a bad rep, which to some extent, I understand. But on the other hand, I’m like, You sure as fuck didn’t take good care of him.
Mark grips my shoulder. “Please get me out of here.”
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I should say no. I should tell him to fuck off. I don’t owe him anything. But I get why he’s struggling right now.
I wrap my arm around him. “Come on, drunkie.”
I guide him to my bike.
Greg starts into a jog toward us.
“If you want out of this, you’re going to have to be faster than that.”
Mark stumbles as he attempts to jog with me. We’re a lot slower than Greg.
I fish the keys out of my pocket as we approach the bike. We hop on, Mark mounting behind me and clinging to me as I rev the engine.
Greg approaches quickly, so quickly I think he might catch up with us, but soon, we’re off, and I’m speeding through the neighborhood, wondering why the fuck I let myself get roped into this mess. Don’t I have enough shit to worry about without adding Mark to the mix?
7
MARK
I cling to Tim. I don’t want to, but I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, so I’m scared as fuck that if I don’t, I’ll fall off.
Why did I drink so much? Why didn’t I just leave? Or tell Greg and Morgan to fuck off? Or do anything other than ask this asshole for a ride?
I was desperate, and it was nice of him to help me out of the jam, but I can’t forget what he did to Keith. He was nice to him. They hung out. He led him on. And Keith isn’t the only guy he’s done that to.
Is that what he wants to do with me?
I won’t fall for it. And it seems that in my wasted state, I’m more determined than usual not to fall for his more charming qualities—like the heroism he just displayed. I see it for what it is: an opportunity to fuck me again. And any guy who would fuck me in this state is a bastard.
About ten minutes pass before we pull into a driveway and park beside a minivan.
His parents’ place?
He hops off the bike and helps me dismount.
I’m even worse than at the house party. I stumble as he guides me along the walkway to the house. Everything appears to be shaking around me. I keep muttering a slurred, “I’m fine,” as though I don’t need his help, even though I clearly do.