Series: Fever Falls Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Ash didn’t speak, just pulled away from me and walked down the hallway. For a moment I considered leaving, but instead I tossed the keys on the table and followed him down the hallway of the one-story ranch-style home.
I turned into a bedroom just as Ash went face-first onto a bed, his legs hanging off the side.
A chuckle fell out of my mouth as I saw the room covered in posters of women in bikinis, cheerleaders, and football players. Ash’s old room…his old double bed. With all the money he had, he hadn’t even changed that.
Who the fuck was he?
Why did I care?
“Shit,” I mumbled as I walked over and began untying his shoes. The asshole was going to owe me for this. The last thing I ever thought I’d be doing was taking off a twenty-eight-year-old Ashton Carmichael’s shoes because he was too drunk to do it himself.
“Thank you,” he groaned into his pillow. “Christ. Embarrassed.”
“I’m not sure he’s embarrassed,” I teased, but didn’t get a sound out of him.
“Fucking alcohol. Always makes me do dumb shit.”
It was said offhandedly, with a slur on the end for good measure, but still it was like a punch to the gut. Did he have to keep reminding me he had been drunk that night? That he hadn’t wanted to kiss me?
“Don’t worry. You’re not my type anyway.”
A soft snore was my only reply. I made it to the door but stopped, thought about the call we’d gotten a few years ago from someone who had been drunk and aspirated in their sleep. Grumbling, I walked over to the beanbag chair, which was better than the desk chair, and fell into it. Looked like I was sleeping there.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice laced with sleep. Apparently, he was coming in and out of it.
“Don’t want you to die, is all,” I replied. “Can you imagine the shit I’d get if I left football legend Ashton Carmichael to die in a drunken stupor?”
“Not what I meant.” He rolled over, put the pillow over his head. “For treating me like you always did…for not asking.”
About the kiss or football? Or hell, maybe he meant both.
Fucking Ashton Carmichael. Somehow, he was wreaking havoc on my life again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ashton
Ashton “How about another drink” Carmichael is really in trouble this time!
The second I heard the front door close, I scrambled out of bed, which made my head spin, and made my way into the bathroom. My hands shook as I fumbled with my pants, dancing around despite my hangover. Once I had my dick out, the pressure inside me released and I emptied my bladder, which had been incredibly close to exploding.
I’d woken up at dawn, needing to take a leak like I never had in my life, but Beau had been there. The last thing I’d needed was to embarrass myself in front of him, and thank God, he didn’t stay long after. He woke up, sneaked out, and now, as I finished taking my piss, I was moaning in pleasure like I’d just had the best orgasm of my life.
He’d stayed with me all night… Beau had stayed…
I was slightly embarrassed he’d had to and surprised that he would. Most people didn’t just do nice things for me because they were nice. They did them because they could get something from me, even if I didn’t figure out what it was until later. Yet somehow, I knew that wasn’t Beau. He’d done it because he was a good guy, but then, that had always been Beau. He’d always been better than most people I knew.
I shook, washed my hands, tugged off my clothes, and fell back into bed. It was almost noon when I woke up the second time, my stomach growling and my head feeling too groggy. Rubbing a hand over my face, I walked naked to the bathroom, swallowed two ibuprofens, took a second piss, and then stumbled into the shower attached to my childhood bedroom. There was a familiarity I wanted in being there again, while at the same time, a part of me wanted to rebel against it. It was like going backward, falling from grace.
I’d failed. I’d fucking failed, and I didn’t know how to deal with that.
Once my shower was finished, I used my face cleaner in hopes that it would make me look less hungover. The bags and dark circles were still there, and I was pretty sure my eyes were more bloodshot than they had been before.
Apparently, they made strong drinks at Fever Pitch.
I found some clean jeans and a tee, brushed my teeth, ran some gel through my hair, and decided I needed to get some food into my stomach before it began eating itself. Bypassing the fully stocked kitchen, I went straight to the door…where my feet rooted to the floor.