“I’ll watch over her tonight,” drunk Mena offered, honestly believing that she must have sounded legit responsible, when in reality, she’d just been pulled away from an attempted assault on a coat rack by Peter, after throwing a punch that had missed it by a mile.
Both Luke and Peter threw some serious side-eye in my direction. “That’s what he’s afraid of,” Peter said.
“Mena’s my best friend,” Elle proclaimed, hanging off my arm. The weight of her body, coupled with my compromised sense of balance and unsteady legs, caused me to stumble forward into a column, taking her with me. “See. She just saved my life,” she announced as my body bore the brunt of the impact.
Peter shook his head. “Oh, dear God. Yeah, I don’t think either of them should be left alone tonight.”
“Agreed,” Luke added. “If I know Elle like I think I do, I think she’ll just crawl into bed and fall asleep. But if we were to leave the two of them together, I’m pretty certain that one of them,” he paused to point at me, “would just as soon burn the dorm down than sleep. I’m predicting I’m going to have my hands full.”
And that’s when drunk Mena took over completely.
“If you’re so worried about me, then why don’t you take Elle back to our dorm, and I will just go home with Peter?
What the fuck are you doing? Sober Mena made her thoughts known. We didn’t agree to this.
Taken aback, Peter was speechless. A first for him. He peered up at me, catching my eye and holding my gaze for a hot second. Yet, despite my drunken haze, I could sense the conflict. It felt like, maybe, he was … afraid? No, that can’t be right. That wasn’t Peter Monroe. The man seemed fearless.
Sober Mena continue to plead with me. Mayday, mayday. Abort.
“Oh, we’ll each have our own sleepover,” Elle chimed in, not helping Sober Mena’s cause at all.
“Yup, sure will, and maybe since you’ll be alone, you and Luke can properly celebrate your birthday together.” I nudged Elle, almost losing my balance.
Luke’s face flushed a deep shade of crimson as I plucked the baseball cap from Elle’s head and placed it on my own. Meanwhile, Peter turned his head to “cough” as a way of concealing his own laughter.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but there will be no sleepovers, only me making sure you two don’t do anything you may regret tonight.”
“Too late for that,” Elle said, once again falling into me.
I would have fallen flat on my face that time if not for the pair of hands that caught me and stood me upright. I looked up to see Peter’s stunning, ocean blue eyes boring straight into my soul—or so it felt. It may have been the alcohol, but at that moment, an army of butterflies made their way into my stomach. Secretly, I had hoped it wasn’t the alcohol.
He let go of me as soon as he was certain I would remain steady on my feet, and I thought perhaps that would be the end of it, but I was wrong.
“Mena should come home with me,” he announced, taking all of us off guard.
“Are you sure?” Luke asked, looking between Peter and me.
“You’ll have your hands full with Elle tonight … probably literally with as many times as she’s stumbled in the last five minutes. I’ll take Mena with me and drop her off in the morning.”
“All right, man. It’s your funeral.”
“I’m going to let that one slide, Hutchins.”
Twenty minutes later, I found myself stumbling across the threshold of Luke and Peter’s apartment.
“There was literally nothing there for you to trip over.” Peter closed the door behind us as I plopped down on one of two oversized beanbag chairs in the center of their small living room and removed Elle’s baseball cap, tossing it across the room.
“When you’re short, everything’s a tripping hazard.”
Peter snickered. “I guess you got me there, only because I have no idea what it’s like to be short.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and headed outside to the patio, closing the screen door behind him. From inside, I heard the click of his lighter as I focused my efforts on willing the room to stop spinning around me.
“You know those things will give you lung cancer, right?”
“And alcohol consumption leads to liver disease. So, I guess we’re both screwed.”
“Have you always been this delightful?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m the product of my environment. A hardened example of what years of disappointment and being a disappointment in return can yield.”
Peter appeared back inside of the apartment. “Really? Exactly what hardships could you have possibly faced?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
He stared at me as though waiting for me to elaborate, changing his mind before I could do just that. “You’re right. I really don’t know anything about you, and maybe that’s for the better.”
Only the faintest hint of cigarette smoke followed him around the room, dissipating when he sat down in the beanbag chair next to me.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I marveled, gesturing around the practically barren room. “Very minimalistic.”
“It’s called broke … I think that’s the HGTV term you’re looking for. This apartment is furnished by a couple of college guys with pockets as deep as a conversation in a high school locker room.”
His smile when he spoke intensified that earlier feeling inside of my stomach, confirming it hadn’t, in fact, been the alcohol, after all.
God, he’s sex on a stick.
Rein it in there before you do something you can’t take back.
Shut up, Sober Mena.
“Are you feeling all right?” Peter asked.
I realized then that I had been staring at him the entire time logical Mena and sloppy Mena were throwing down in my head.
“I-I’m okay.” I stood up too quickly for a sober person, let alone one who was entirely the opposite, and before I knew what had hit me, I was stumbling forward. The same pair of hands that had so nimbly caught me earlier in the night, reached out to me again, except this time, they weren’t enough to keep me from falling—right on top of him.
We lay there with me on top of him and him on top of the beanbag for several seconds, completely silent, save for the sound of our breath and my heart, which was beating so furiously I feared it may rouse the neighbors.
“I think we’d better get you to bed.” Peter’s arm was still draped around my waist, where it had been since his failed attempt at breaking my fall. “Y-You can sleep in Luke’s bed. It’ll be the most action it’s seen since … well, ever.”
“I don’t want to go to bed yet. At least, not Luke’s bed.”
“Mena.” My name came out of him as something of a hoarse whisper. His grip around my waist tightened.
I rested my hand on his chest, where I noticed his heart was beating just as rampantly as my own. “Peter,” I answered him, “kiss me.”
He groaned, gripping me tightly. I searched his face, wishing like hell I could find something that would clue me in on what he was thinking, whether the connection I felt with him was also felt by him. And then the dam broke, and whatever internal struggle had been going on inside of his head dissipated, allowing him to feel again. Suddenly, I was able to catch a glimpse of the longing in his eyes, and I knew without a doubt he felt it, too.
“Oh, hell.” His hand cupped my face; his thumb traced my lips, and without giving me a moment to react first, his lips found mine. Peter’s moan met my own as his kiss moved from tender to more fervent.
My hands moved across his chest upward to his face, where one rested on his cheek and the other explored the unkempt, dark mop on top of his head. He followed my lead, his hand leaving my waist to trace the outline of my body with his fingers, bringing about goosebumps where his skin met mine. Our lips parted in unison, our tongues brushing against each other.
“I want you,�
� I moaned, my fingers leaving his cheek to make their way to the button of his blue jeans.
“Stop,” he groaned, and I wasn’t certain whether he was talking to me or to himself. Choosing to ignore it, I continued. “Mena.” Although his voice was still soft, there was more of a stern nature to it than there had been before. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re observant.” Somehow, my fingers managed to undo the button, but right as they were about to make their way underneath his waistband, his hand gripped my wrist.
“I can’t let this happen.”
“Wh-Why not?” Doing my best to maintain my composure, I scrambled to extricate myself from his body, finding myself sliding from the beanbag chair down to the floor, humiliated. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. God no. You were doing everything right, trust me.” His face flushed as he sat up on the beanbag chair and ran his hand through his hair. “I just don’t want you waking up tomorrow having done something you regret. I don’t want to be your regret.”
“You wouldn’t be,” I assured him. “I’m telling you exactly what I want.”
He shook his head. “No, those shots of Jose Cuervo are telling you what you want right now. And it’s not me, Mena. A girl like you and a guy like me, that just doesn’t happen.”
“What do you mean? Am I not good enough for you?”
His eyes widened in genuine surprise. “No, that’s not it at all. I’m not good enough for you, Mena. You’re smart, beautiful, and absolutely terrifying; everything a man could want. I’m … well, I’m nothing.”
Peter Monroe was vulnerable, a side of himself he rarely showed. And it was killing him to show it to me now. If not for my level of intoxication, I was positive he would have kept it locked away.
“That’s silly. I mean, sure, you’re a sarcastic asshole with the driest sense of humor I have ever encountered, but Christ, look at you.”
He laughed. “As much as I’d like to take that glowing review as a sign that you are in fact in your right mind right now, my answer is still no.” I could sense his disappointment, just as surely as he could see mine written all over my face. “Look, if you remember any of this tomorrow morning, and you can honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you still feel the same way, then you’ll have me in whatever way you want me, Mena Straszewski. Because Lord knows it’s killing me not to let you have me right now.
“You have a deal, Peter Monroe.”
“You’re really something.” Although he shook his head when he made that statement, he was smiling.
“Something good or something bad?”
“I honestly haven’t figured that out yet.” He stood up and reached his hand out to me to help me up. Once I steadied myself on my feet, I followed him down the hallway. “Luke’s bedroom is at the end of the hall. The bathroom is next to it. And this is my stop.” He paused outside of his door to look back at me. “Goodnight, Mena.” Sighing, he hesitated briefly just before entering his room.
I lingered outside of his door for a moment, partly because I hoped he would reemerge in the hall, having decided to throw chivalry out the window, but also because the floor appeared to move with each step I took. He was right. I was far too drunk to even make a reliable choice between regular or decaf coffee, let alone to have sex with Luke’s incredibly good-looking counterpart.
Once I was finally able to make my way to Luke’s bedroom, I remained awake in his bed for a long time, partially weirded out because I was in Luke’s bed, but also because I couldn’t shut my mind off. Granted, I was three sheets to the wind and my mind always raced about haphazardly like a toddler in a candy store whenever I drank too much, but somehow it was different that night. Because no matter how many thoughts bounced around inside of my head, I always came back to one.
Peter Monroe.
Was he also wide awake in bed thinking about me? Was he mulling over what had transpired between us tonight just as much as I was? Or was he fast asleep, satisfied with himself after successfully fending off yet another female admirer’s affections?
No. Remember what he told you.
What did he tell me?
Shit. Help me out here, Sober Mena.
Go screw yourself.
As hard as I tried to commit the night to memory, it was slowly slipping away with each minute I inched back toward sobriety. Like sand in an hourglass, my memories from the night were disappearing rapidly. By morning, they may be gone forever, which meant for the rest of the night, I had to put up a valiant effort to retain every detail of my time with Peter Monroe. Every look, every touch, every kiss. Surely if I thought about him and how he made me feel, really concentrated hard, that would be enough, wouldn’t it?
Despite my best efforts to win the battle against sleep, exhaustion and the alcohol inevitably won the war, and it wasn’t long before I shut my eyes for the rest of the night.
Sunlight crawled through the blinds and made its way to my face the next morning, waking me. At first, I had forgotten where I was, but then I gradually regained my bearings and started to remember that I had stayed at Peter and Luke’s. A stirring from down the hall told me that Peter was awake, too. With a yawn, I extracted myself from Luke’s bed and ambled down the hall in the direction of the noise Peter was making.
“Good morning,” he greeted me. “What’s left of it, anyway.”
“No matter how many times it’s said to me, I will never acknowledge a morning as being good in any way.”
“Heh, I could drink to that.” He held up a mug of what I could only assume was coffee. “Bet you couldn’t, though.”
“Actually, I probably could if I really wanted to. My liver has been thoroughly conditioned since I turned twenty-one—and maybe somewhat before then.”
“Want any breakfast? I have cereal … and cereal.”
“Hmm, so many choices. I’ll take the cereal.”
“Excellent choice.” He pulled a bag out of the cabinet and tossed it on the counter while he rummaged through another cabinet for a bowl.
“What, you couldn’t splurge on the name brand stuff?”
“I could, but then I may have to cut back on things like Cheetos, and I’m not prepared for that level of sacrifice just yet. Besides, I personally feel the generic brand cereals taste better.”
“Given the décor in this place, I don’t think it needs to be said that your sense of taste of any kind is seriously compromised.”
“Just eat your degerminated yellow corn flour, soluble corn fiber, and hydrogenated vegetable oil and get out of my apartment.” Smiling, he set a bowl he’d filled with colorful Os’ down on the counter in front of me with a gallon of milk.
“Is that any way to treat a guest?”
“When she’s being insufferable, it is.”
I flipped him off as I poured milk into the bowl, watching him load dirty dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. While he worked, bits and pieces from the night before flashed through my head: his touch, our kiss, the way he looked at me. And, especially, what he’d said to me.
‘… if you remember any of this tomorrow morning, and you can honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you still feel the same way, then you’ll have me in whatever way you want me …’
He’d given me an out. Taking my state of inebriation into account, he’d figured that was the only reason why I was into him, and so he put the ball in my court. He wanted to know that any decision that was made to sleep together was made by me to avoid the awkwardness. Peter Monroe was one of the rare good ones I’d encountered since moving to Virginia.
“I remember everything.”
He paused, silverware resting between his fingers. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something further and that’s why he didn’t bother to turn around or even acknowledge my statement with anything more than a sudden lull in activity. Either way, he recommenced loading the dishwasher without saying a word.
Did I misjudge him and the situation? Had I actually heard him say what I tho
ught I’d heard him say? Or was it more me wanting to hear what I thought I’d heard? There was one way to find out. I finished my bowl of soggy Os’ and moved to stand next to him near the dishwasher.
“I’m completely one hundred … well, eighty-five percent sober, and nothing has changed the way I feel since last night.”
With a sudden exhale, he dropped the bowl he’d been holding in his hand in the sink and steadied himself on the counter, resting one hand on each side of the basin.
“Unless of course you’ve changed your mind about me.”
He shook his head, finally turning to look at me, his eyes filled with the same longing I saw in them the night before. “Mena.” He said my name like doing so allowed him to finally breathe again.
“Peter,” I whispered.
I wasn’t certain which one of us moved first, and it really didn’t matter, but seconds later, my back had been pressed against the kitchen wall and Peter’s lips were on mine.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his forehead resting on my own.
“Aren’t you?”
“More than anything.” He brushed a stray hair away from my face. “It’s just—a girl like you and a guy like me, it doesn’t happen.”
I touched my finger to his lips. “You’re right. A girl like me could seriously corrupt a guy like you. More than once, if you’re lucky.
*****
I stood at the entrance to the auditorium, listening to Phineas speak. His public speaking skills were on point as usual. That, coupled with his expertise of the industry, kept his audience right where he wanted them. Not to mention his youthful charisma and good looks. Those traits probably didn’t hurt in that area, either. Outside, each presenter’s agency had a table set up, filled with literature and other information for convention attendees. During the first three speakers, I noticed people trickling from the auditorium out into the hallway to peruse the tables. But when Phineas took the stage, the hallway emptied and every seat in the auditorium was filled.
“Man, I wonder if he’s hiring,” an attractive, young blonde with hair for days pondered, never taking her eyes off Phineas.
“He’s not,” I simply stated, without another glance in her direction.
When Stars Collide Page 8
