by Casey, Ember
I shake my head. “What was the point of this?” I motion toward him. “That you needed to get this drunk?”
“I told you…” He staggers toward me. “I’m not drunk.” He reaches for me and misses, his hand falling just above the button for the elevator. He pauses there for a moment before leaning against the wall.
“Then you should have been an actor instead of a singer.”
He laughs as he starts to slide down the wall. “You know what your problem is?”
“No, Pax. What is my problem?”
“You expect too much.” He shakes his head as his legs begin to buckle, and he slides to the floor. “You think I’m a good person, and I’m not.”
“Believe me, at the moment, I do not think that at all.” I press again at the button over his head.
“You…you wanted me to say it. And I won’t.” His words slur together again.
“I don’t want you to say anything, Pax.” Even if part of me wanted him to tell me he loved me tonight, everything about this is leaving me with nothing but a feeling of disgust. “Particularly if this is what happens when you feel something.”
“That’s it, though. I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“Feel. I don’t…feel. Anything.”
“Well, with as much alcohol as you’ve had tonight, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”
The elevator finally arrives, and I try to step around him to enter, but he catches me by the leg.
“Don’t just go. We were having a…talking. A con… A convict? No. A contest. No, a con—”
“A conversation, Pax.” I try to pull my leg from his grasp, but he only holds tighter. “But it’s very difficult to have a conversation with someone as drunk as you are right now.”
“Just…come back to my room. You don’t have to leave.”
I’m not sure what possesses me—or why I even want to stay here with him when the thought of an actual feeling drives him to have to drink—but I stare down at him as the elevator doors close. “Fine. I’ll help you back to your room. But only because I don’t think you can make it there on your own.”
“I could…if I wanted to.” He lets out a slurred laugh. “You won’t regret it. I’m going to fuck you…and then I’m going to fuck you again.”
“Somehow, I doubt that you’ll be able to function in your current state.” I shake my head at him again as I lean down to help him up.
He stumbles to his feet, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “You’ll see. Besides, I told you…I’m not…drunk.” He can barely get the words out as I try to get him to walk toward the door to his room.
“Yes, you keep telling me that,” I sigh. We finally reach the door, and we stand there in front of it for a long moment. “The key, Pax.”
“Oh yeah.” He laughs as he pulls the card from his pocket. He jabs it toward the lock above the handle, but misses. He tries again and hits his hand so hard against the door that he may as well have punched it.
I grab the card from his hand, sliding it into the lock. Carefully, I open the door and lead him through, looping my arm around his waist to pull him inside.
We’re not even halfway to the bed when he speaks again. “You love me, don’t you?”
“Pax…”
“You do. Admit it.”
“You reek of alcohol, Pax. And I’m afraid you’re going to vomit at any moment.” I glance back toward the washroom, thinking it might have been better to lead him there instead of to the bed at the thought of him throwing up all over me.
“You loooove me.” His sing-song, teasing voice is little more than a slur. “Princess Sophia loves Pax,” he sings as he falls onto the bed. He tries to pull me down with him, but I manage to let go of him as he tumbles onto the mattress.
“Go to sleep. If you even remember this conversation in the morning—”
“I was going to say it, you know. I was going to say that I love you.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
“And that’s why you got drunk, right?” I’m not sure why I’m even attempting to speak to him—there’s no way he’s going to remember any of this.
“Yep.” He rolls onto his side, grinning at me. “But you do, right?”
My brow furrows. “Love you?”
He nods, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to him as he closes his eyes. “You do. I knew it. But it’s okay, Sophia. Because I love you, too.”
Pax
I’m not sure how long I’m passed out. One minute I feel like I’m floating, drifting happily and dazedly through space, and the next minute pain slams through my face.
“Fuck,” I shout, grabbing my nose. “Damn it.”
Everything is dark around me, but the pain is sending swirly red shapes across my vision. I reach out with my free hand, fumbling around in the darkness, and my fingers hit a wall.
The same damn wall I must have just walked into.
I blink, trying to let my vision adjust to the darkness. Where the hell am I? Where did this wall come from?
As I try to solve that riddle, I realize I really, really need to piss.
That’s when I start to remember. I was in bed, and I needed to use the bathroom. But my bathroom isn’t where it used to be. Who the hell rearranged my apartment?
Wait… This isn’t my apartment. It takes my brain a long time to come to that realization, but when it does, a few other things click into place.
I’m in a hotel. In San Francisco. That’s why I don’t know where the hell the bathroom is. Twisted Throne just had the first show of our tour tonight.
And I still really need to piss.
With one hand on the wall—I don’t think my nose could take another hit—I make my way around the room, feeling for a door. My steps are heavy, and I’m dizzier than I feel like I should be, even if it is the middle of the night. My mouth feels like cotton.
I’ve been drinking. I can taste it on my thick, coated tongue. I can feel it in the fuzziness of my brain. In fact, I think I might still be a little drunk. I’ve been drinking a lot.
After what seems like ages, I finally find the bathroom. My fingers fumble for the light switch, and I groan when I’m suddenly blinded.
Still better than pissing on the floor, I guess.
As I aim for the toilet, my mind tries to piece together my evening. I remember walking into the party. Remember talking to people, taking shots, having a good time… After that, the memories come in flashes. I think I was on the balcony at one point. I think Rider told a joke I found hilarious, but I can’t remember what it was. And at some point, Sophia showed up…
Sophia.
I squeeze my eyes shut, grimacing. I don’t remember much of what happened with her, but I remember it wasn’t good.
But no, that’s not entirely true—before the party, before I got smashed, she and I were in my room together. Having a very good time.
And then I almost told her I loved her.
I grimace again, and pain shoots through my temple. Now I remember—that was why I was drinking. I almost fucking told her I loved her. Some chick I’ve known less than a month. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking.
Thank God I dodged that bullet.
I flush and shuffle over to the sink to wash my hands. Somehow Princess Sophia has turned me into a fucking idiot.
I grab one of the glasses by the sink and fill it up with tap water, then chug down it all down without stopping. My mouth still feels dry, but my head clears a little. A quick glance in the mirror shows I look like a fucking zombie, but fuck it. I’ve suffered through worse hangovers before, and maybe there’s still time to sleep off the worst of it.
I glance at my watch. Four-thirty in the morning. Yeah, I’ve still got a few hours of sleep to go.
I leave the bathroom and stumble back to my bed. I realize I’m still wearing my clothes—I must’ve been too drunk to even take them off—so I pull my shirt over my head and peel down my jeans before ju
mping back onto the mattress. It’s not until I pull the covers over me that I realize I’m not alone.
It’s Sophia. Even though I can’t see her, I know her smell. She shifts, rolling over toward me.
“Are you okay?” she murmurs, sounding half asleep.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Just had to use the bathroom.”
I pull her toward me, wrapping my arms around her. She snuggles against me, still drowsy.
“It’s funny,” I say. “Last night’s a blur, but I could’ve sworn we were arguing about something. Glad we managed to work it out.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she seems to wake up a little more—she stiffens slightly.
“Sophia?”
She rolls out of my arms, but when she speaks, I can tell she’s facing me.
“You don’t remember what happened last night?” she asks.
“Er, no. Not all of it, anyway.” I chuckle. “Obviously I got shitfaced. I hope I wasn’t too much of a dipshit.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call you charming.”
“That bad?” I frown. “What did we argue about?”
“Nothing important,” she says. “Stupid stuff. You really don’t remember?”
“I remember being at the party. And I remember you showing up. But after that… Even what I do remember from the party is in patches.”
She’s very quiet for a long moment.
“Come here,” I murmur, trying to pull her into my arms again.
She comes, melting against me once more, but I can tell something is wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against her hair. “For whatever I said or did. I’m not usually a shithead when I’m drunk, I promise. Usually I’m a happy drunk. It must have just been my nerves about the tour.” My stomach is a giant knot. What did I say or do to upset her? Part of me wants to know, but another part of me is afraid to remember—I’m not sure I could live with the shame if I knew I’d hurt her in some way.
“Sophia?” I say again.
“It’s fine,” she tells me. “Not that big of a deal. Yeah, you were kind of a ass, but no worse than any of my brothers get when they’re drunk.” She presses her forehead against my chest. “Just go to sleep.”
I can tell that’s all I’m going to get out of her tonight. With a sigh, I tighten my arms around her and close my eyes, hoping the morning brings a little more clarity.
Sophia
I don’t sleep a bit the rest of the night.
I’m honestly not certain what bothers me more—the fact that Pax told me he loved me or that he has no recollection of saying the words.
Of course, he also told me that he’s not a good person, and combined with the troubling lyrics of his song, I can’t help but wonder what it is he’s hiding.
As I think of all the possibilities, I can’t help but think that my father will never approve of this relationship. I suppose it hadn’t really mattered before—even with all that’s happened between Pax and me, the knowledge that this was only a fling was my foremost thought.
No man has ever said he loved me before. Well, my brothers say it on rare occasions, but no man I’ve been involved with has.
My stomach is still tangled in knots. I’m not really certain how I feel about Pax’s proclamation at all. Part of me thinks I might love him. I do care for him—much more than I ever thought I would. But I have to wonder how much of those feelings come from what I’ve heard in his songs. His music is the only time he bares his soul—and it’s the same reason the women attacked me last night. I’m certainly not the only person affected by his songs.
Still, as he holds me, I can’t help but wonder if he might have actually meant what he said last night. Even if he was in a drunken stupor, his words were genuine.
But he doesn’t remember. He’ll never remember. And I can’t really let myself return those feelings if admitting he loves me causes him so much pain that he needs to get drunk to forget them.
My “fling” has become much more complicated than I ever intended.
Pax finally presses a kiss to my forehead. “Good morning.” He kisses my temple before he pulls out of my arms, sitting up as he rubs his head. “How much did I have to drink last night?”
“A lot.” I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest as I watch Pax stumble to the washroom.
He returns a few moments later and sits on the edge of the bed. “So, how much is a lot?” He winces, blinking at me a few times. “I don’t remember the last time I was this hungover.”
“I couldn’t say. You were carrying around a bottle—it looked like vodka. But I don’t know. I wasn’t there for most of your drinking.”
His brow furrows and he rubs his forehead for a few minutes. “What happened last night?”
“What do you mean? You sang at your concert. I was attacked by a mob of your fans—”
“No, I remember that part. It was after that…” He shakes his head, pressing his palm to the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t call you by the wrong name, did I? Because if I did—”
“You didn’t.” I frown, watching him. I suppose I should just tell him that he told me he loves me. But knowing how he reacted to almost saying it leads me to believe it wouldn’t end well. It would probably just end.
Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I’m not so sure I’m ready to be in a relationship any more than he is—but at least I have nothing to hide. Pax seems to be hiding a lot.
“You can tell me what I said, you know.” He gives me a weak smile. “You wouldn’t have any aspirin or anything, would you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think my head has ever throbbed like this.”
I shake my head—I left my bag in my room downstairs.
Part of me wants to tell him what happened last night, but perhaps neither of us is ready to truly admit that we have actual feelings for each other. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Except that Pax did admit he has actual feelings. He told me he loves me. But when he almost said it sober, he had to drink so that he wouldn’t remember.
“Are you going to make me guess what I said?” He crawls over to sit next to me before he pulls my hand into his. “Because that isn’t very fun.”
“How long do you want me to stay? On tour with you, I mean.” I force a small smile.
“Assuming Ol’ Nicky will let you, you mean?” He laughs for a second before pressing his hand to his head. “Laughing hurts like a motherfucker.”
“I’m sorry. And yes, I suppose that would be assuming my brother has come to his senses and will leave us alone.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. A few more weeks? If you want to go before that, it’s fine, too.”
It’s almost like he’s punched me in the stomach—I feel like the wind has been knocked from me. How does one go from telling a woman he loves her to telling her he’d like to have her around for a few more weeks?
What am I doing to myself?
“You know…” I’m not sure where they come from, but tears fill my eyes. I blink them back, and I’m sure Pax didn’t see them. He still has his eyes squeezed shut, rubbing at his temples. “I think…I think perhaps it would be best if we just said our farewells now.”
“What?” His eyes open, and his gaze snaps to mine. “I said a few more weeks.”
“I know. But…” I force another smile. “I suppose it would be better if we left this amicably. Especially after last night.” That’s exactly the problem, I realize after I’ve said the words. I do care about him. I might even love him. Or I could certainly grow to love him. But he’ll never be able to admit the same thing to me—not without some intoxicant, anyway. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to have my heart broken because of it.
“Exactly what did I say to you, Sophia?” He winces. “I’m sorry…my head.”
“It’s okay, Pax. It really is. I’ll send down for some aspirin for you.” I slide off the bed, walking around to the front before I turn back to face him. “But I should go. I should—”
/>
“What did I say?” He rises, walking over to me. “Whatever it was, I’m sorry. I was drunk. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.” I look at him for a long moment, my eyes filling again with tears. “And that’s the problem.”
Pax
What the fuck happened last night?
I’ve done some stupid things when I was drunk before, but it’s always easier to deal with the consequences when I know what I’ve done. How do you apologize for something you don’t know about? How do you convince someone you’ll never do it again if you don’t know what you did the first time around?
This is why I don’t usually drink this much.
It’s my own damn fault. If I hadn’t freaked out about almost telling her I loved her, none of this ever would’ve happened. Now she’s threatening to leave me again.
I stare down at her. She looks like she’s considering bolting for the door, but I don’t want her to leave. Not yet.
“I want to work through this,” I tell her carefully. “But I’m not sure how to do that if there are secrets between us. I’m sorry I can’t remember what I said or did. I’m asking for your help.”
She swallows, and I notice her eyes flick to the door again. She’s still thinking of running.
“This isn’t about what you said or did,” she says. “This is about us. How long are we going to drag this out? We both know this thing has no real future. So how long are we going to tread water?”
“As long as we fucking want to,” I say, stepping closer to her. She backs a step toward the wall. “Everything has an expiration date, Sophia. It might be tomorrow, or next month, or thirty years from now, but everything ends eventually. Everything is transient. That’s life. Does that mean we should run away from the good things because they’ll inevitably end someday? Is that the kind of life you want?”
“This isn’t about running away. This is about being practical.”
“Fuck practicality,” I say. “What kind of life is that?”
Anger flashes in her eyes. “Not all of us have the freedom to do whatever we want whenever we want. Some of us actually have responsibilities. And have to deal with the consequences of our actions.”
