Drunk in Love Read online

  I clench my jaw. No, the last thing we need to do is talk. If he wants to make a big deal about taking me home, I’ll let him, but then I’m getting out of the car and slamming my door in his face.

  When we reach security, he talks one of the guys there into lending him his car. It’s unnerving how easily he does it. I guess some things haven’t changed. Back in high school, Topher Wilson could sweet-talk anyone into doing anything, including me right out of my virginity.

  “You don’t still live with your parents do you?” he asks once we’re in a sensible sedan that looks nothing like the three-hundred-pound Mohawk-rocking security guard it belonged to.

  “No, I don’t,” I huff in annoyance at the question.

  I’m twenty-four years old and can afford my own place thank you very much.

  “Well, I’m going to need directions to where you live then,” he grumbles, turning the key in the ignition.

  Before I can snap back my reply, the car fills with the song “Wheels on The Bus”. Both of our heads turn to look at each other in shock.

  He blinks at me before turning his eyes to the radio while my gaze move to the backseat.

  “It’s a CD,” he says, while at the same time I say, “There’s a baby seat in the back.”

  Our eyes lock again as we both laugh. “Mohawk guy is a dad.”

  He turns off the music and grins at me. Shit. He still has a gorgeous smile, and watching him do it up close is not a good thing.

  “I live off of Hollandale, over behind the old library,” I blurt.

  Whatever softness had crept into his features fades away as he shifts the car into reverse. “That isn’t the best neighborhood.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “How would you know? You left a million years ago.”

  “My aunt and uncle still live here,” he replies, steel coating each syllable.

  Whatever. We drive in silence. The blur of red taillights from the cars in front of us is all I can see. It’s annoying that he knows the way without having to ask anything other than what I already told him.

  We’re only five or so minutes from my apartment when he surprises me by pulling into Kicks, a sports bar that’s been here since forever.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He shifts into park. “I’m buying you a drink.”

  “You are not,” I argue, pushing open my door and stepping out.

  These boots pinch my toes, but I can walk home from here. When I start to take off, he quickly circles the back of the car, his long legs eating up the distance, and stops me.

  “No fucking way in hell I’m letting you walk home.”

  I turn and shake his hand off of my arm. “Let me? I’ve walked home from this bar a million times.”

  “Alone?” he asks, surprising me.

  My mouth falls open before I pull myself together enough to ask, “Are you insane?”

  He answers me by bending down and pushing his shoulder into my stomach before picking me up and carrying me into the bar while I kick and pound on his back.

  He ignores my struggles completely and calmly says, “Hey Paul, got any open booths?”

  Paul pain-in-my-ass O’Brien, only laughs and replies, “Is that Penny Torg?”

  “Yep,” Topher replies, while I snap, “Put me down you giant oaf.”

  Paul chuckles. “I thought her ass looked familiar, and I see nothing changes.”

  Topher’s body stiffens at Paul’s mention of my ass, and he repeats, “Booths?”

  Paul must nod, not that I can see him, but Topher starts moving and I can only assume it’s to follow him deeper into the bar.

  “Hey Penny,” a few people laugh and greet, as Topher continues to carry me.

  “I hate all of you,” I grumble, and stop beating Topher’s back to cover my face instead.

  Topher stops suddenly and sets me on my feet. Before I can kick him in the balls or scratch his eyes out, he pushes me into the booth and sits down next to me, effectively trapping me.

  “You do realize the whole bar just witnessed you kidnapping me,” I say, glaring at him.

  “I’m shaking in my boots,” he murmurs before directing his attention to Paul. “Bring us a bottle of Jack and two shot glasses.”

  “Jack for Topher,” I mutter snidely.

  “You have every right to hate me,” he replies.

  “I do,” I agree with a nod.

  “It wasn’t worth it,” he says next, surprising and confusing me.

  Before I can ask what he means, Paul returns with the requested bottle of Jack and shot glasses. “I added it to your tab,” he says to Topher, and then leaves.

  “You have a tab here?” I ask.

  He nods and makes short work of filling both of the shot glasses.

  That makes no sense if he’s only around for the concerts. I don’t question it though since he could have stayed in touch with Paul for all I know.

  He passes one shot to me, and I ask, “Is this really necessary?”

  He lifts his glass and holds my gaze, not answering me.

  I let out a big puff of air and pick up my shot. “Oh, all right.”

  We both throw them back. I hiss as soon as the alcohol burns its way down my throat and set the glass on the table in front of us. He promptly refills it.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Liquid courage.”

  I squint at him. “What do you need courage for?”

  “Talking to you,” he wastes no time replying, and then picks up my refilled glass.

  I take it from him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  He lifts his glass and motions for me to down mine. Rolling my eyes, I do.

  When he goes to fill my glass again, I stop him. “That’s enough courage for now. Say what you want to say.”

  “I’m moving home.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” I gasp.

  He reaches for the bottle, but I pull it toward me.

  He drags his hand over his face before turning toward me in the booth, his leg pushing against mine. “I came back for you.”

  “You did not,” I argue. “You’re only here for the concert.”

  He shakes his head. “Tonight was my last show.”

  “What?” I stammer.

  I regret blurting out my question as soon as it leaves my mouth. While Topher has experienced some success in the music community, he wasn’t formally a part of any particular band. He’s worked on tons of recordings and toured with just about every headliner out there. Not that I followed his career or anything. Still, the way he worked, he could live anywhere. That said, the idea of him moving here for me is ludicrous.

  “You heard me,” he replies.

  It’s my turn to fill my shot glass, only because I now need a drink. Once it’s full, I down it.

  Then I push at his side. “This has been fun, but I need to leave now.”

  He covers my hands with his. “Penny, listen to me.”

  I shake my head and pull away. “Tonight has already been humiliating enough. What? Are you trying to have some more fun now at my expense? Is that what this is?”

  “You think I’m trying to hurt you?” he asks, his tone incredulous.

  I shift as far as possible away from him. “It’s all you’ve ever done.”

  “You can’t mean that. Tonight was an accident. I should have stopped you from going into that room with Donny, but you caught me off guard.”

  “Did you know what he was going to do?” I accuse.

  “Yes, which is why I came to get you,” he argues.

  He has a point. He did do that.

  “Fine,” I concede.

  “Donny is an asshole,” he adds.

  His words shock me enough for me to lift my eyes to his. “But his music—“

  “All bullshit. He doesn’t write his own songs. That’s some deal set up by the record label. Sure, he sings them, but every single piece of him is a fabrication.
His name isn’t even Donny, it’s Randall.”

  “Randall?” I ask, my nose crinkling.

  He nods, and I want to kick myself. For years I’ve idolized a fake. Learning that feels like someone just ran over my dog, not that I have a dog.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

  “So you can trust me again,” he replies, without missing a beat.

  My upper lip curls. “Telling me one truth will not erase all of your lies.”

  He takes the bottle and fills his glass before refilling mine. “I have to start somewhere.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I hiss. “This all sounds like complete bullshit. There’s no way you could have known I was coming tonight, let alone that I was planning to sneak backstage.”

  He throws back his shot. “I was planning to come see you at your music shop tomorrow.”

  I gulp. “You were?”

  He nods, and I toss back my shot. When I set the glass on the table, I push it away.

  “Any more of that, and I’ll be a drunk mess.”

  He pushes both the bottle and his glass across the table as well.

  “No more liquid courage?” I ask.

  “It’ll be pointless if you’re too drunk to remember anything I’ve said.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re doing,” I murmur more to myself than to him.

  “I know I screwed up,” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “Screwed up?” I ask with wide eyes. “That’s how you sum up using me to get an audition and ditching me when you landed the gig?”

  “I was eighteen years old, Penny. Yes, I used you. There’s a reason music inspires you. You have more musical talent in your pinkie than eighty percent of the people getting record deals today. If you ever got over your stage fright, you would have the entire music industry eating out of your hands.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that your game? You want me to write music for you?”

  He shakes his head, “I don’t want anything from you. I just want you.”

  “What does that even mean?” I ask.

  “We were good together once,” he replies. “Give me another chance.”

  “Good together?” I laugh. “We were nothing, because you were only using me.”

  His eyes close as he pulls in a deep breath. I wait for him to respond.

  When he does, he rocks my world.

  “I didn’t realize I was in love with you until after I broke your heart.”

  Just then, Brittney and her the rest of her bachelorette party stumble into the bar.

  “What are they doing here?” I half whisper, trying to hide.

  He looks over at them and then back to me. “Did you even hear what I said?”

  My head suddenly feels light, and I lift my hand to it. “I think I’m drunk.”

  He slides out of the booth, taking me with him. “Some fresh air will clear your head, and I can get you out of here before Britney and her crew see you with a loser like me.”

  Glaring, I snap loud enough for anyone to hear, “I don’t care if people see me with you.”

  He shakes his head, but does it with a smile and reaches for my hand. I don’t fight him as he leads me through the bar, and I even manage to wave bye to Paul when he does. It’s not until we pass Mohawk man’s car that I say, “What about his car? He has a baby, and he’ll need it for diapers or something.”

  Topher pulls out his phone and pushes some buttons. “I told him where it is and that I’ll cover his cab fare to come pick it up. Wait here.”

  For some odd reason, I wait like he asks instead of running home like I should. I watch as he walks back into the bar. He doesn’t keep me waiting long and is back beside me in no time.

  “I left his keys, enough to cover the cab, and then some with Paul.”

  “Oh,” is all I say.

  He takes my hand and tugs me in the direction of my apartment. We’re a block away before my boots start to seriously pinch my toes.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks when I stop us to try and wiggle my toes.

  “My boots hurt after a while,” I explain.

  He steps in front of me and leans forward. “Hop on.”

  “No, I’ll be fine, just give me a minute,” I argue.

  “Stop being stubborn, and hop on,” he orders.

  My eyes flick to my stupid boots before I give up and jump on to his back. He gives me a bounce once I’m up to shift me higher, and his strong hands settle right on my ass, holding me. This was a terrible idea.

  With my arms wrapped around his neck and his hands on my ass, I begin to question my judgment tonight. Fresh air is supposed to be clearing my mind not muddling it even more. Somehow Topher Wilson is not only taking me home, but he’s carrying me there.

  This is not the behavior of a rational person.

  It is the behavior of the woman who might still carry a torch for him and hopes with all her heart that he’s telling the truth. Like our earlier car ride, neither of us speaks as he piggybacks me to my apartment.

  His presence almost overwhelmed me in the car, and now I’m literally plastered to his back. Why does he have to smell so good? Why does his back need to feel so firm beneath me? Why am I still so attracted to the man who almost broke me?

  “It’s this one,” I murmur in his ear, lifting one arm to point toward a building on our right.

  “I know,” he replies.

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Apartment number 427,” he answers.

  Oh My God.

  I don’t reply. Nothing I could say would ever be heard over the pounding of my heart. Thankfully, he doesn’t press for a response. He only continues to carry me, right up the front steps to my building and into the foyer.

  “You can put me down,” I whisper.

  He waits until we’re in front of the elevator to do so. With a shaky hand, I press the up button. Once the door opens, he follows me in. I don’t even consider telling him to go.

  I may be silly, naïve, or still a bit drunk, but more than anything else, I’m still in love with him.

  When the doors close, I look up at him. He must see the decision in my eyes because a second later his lips are on mine. It’s a miracle we make it to my floor without tearing each other’s clothes off.

  We stumble-kiss, laughing as we go, right to my door. I fumble with my keys, not willing to lose his mouth to look down at my lock. After a few failed attempts, I finally get it opened.

  It doesn’t stay open long. Topher pushes me up against it, locking it before lifting me. I circle his hips with my legs and groan as his mouth moves down my neck to lick and kiss the skin exposed by my V-neck.

  “God, how I’ve missed and wanted you,” he breathes.

  I want to argue that as a successful musician on the road, let alone a ridiculously hot one, he’s probably had no shortage of tail over the years. Thing is, I followed his career, and while he never garnered the amount of attention the stars he worked with did, I never, not once saw him photographed with another woman.

  That thought forces my curiosity. “Was there anyone after me?”

  My question could be an innocent intro into a STD conversation, but it’s so much more than that. I wasn’t his first but he was mine. The way he left killed my ability to trust men. There hasn’t been anyone since him.

  He lifts his head and holds my gaze with an intensity that freezes me. “Not long after I left, a girl at a party tried to give me a blow job. I say ‘try’ because I couldn’t stay hard. That was when I realized I loved you.”

  I blink away tears, thinking of the years that passed during that time. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He carries me to my sofa and settles me onto my back, coming down on top of me. It’s strange how my body remembers. I hadn’t even considered how much I missed his weight on me.

  His hands come up to frame my face, his voice pained when he answers, “You hated me and had every right to. At first, I was part coward,
part certain that time would erase the hold you had on me.”

  “It didn’t?” I guess.

  He lowers his lips to mine and against them, replies, “It didn’t.”

  Since he wasn’t expecting to run into me tonight, let alone end up back at my place, and I’m not exactly sexually active, our reunion remains the clothes-on variety. We kiss, and speak softly to each other well into the night. As comfy as my sofa is, we move into my bedroom after Topher’s leg starts to cramp.

  “Would it be presumptuous to buy condoms tomorrow?” he asks as soon as I’m settled in his arms.

  “If you don’t, I will,” I sigh.

  Tucked snug against his body, I fall asleep and even more in love with the drummer who stole my heart in high school.

  The End

  ABOUT CAREY HEYWOOD

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling romance author, Carey Heywood was born and raised in Alexandria, Virginia.

  Her books are full of emotion, humor and steam. She is inspired by everyday fairy tales. Her leading men are guys you might bump into at the grocery store; teachers, mechanics, and website designers.

  Supporting her all the way are her husband, three sometimes-adorable children, a mischievous black cat, and their nine-pound attack Yorkie.

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  RESCUE ME

  Elle Brooks

  1

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’ve always loved weddings. For as long as I can remember I’ve had mine planned to the nth degree. Every aspect carefully scrapbooked, colour coordinated, filed and alphabetised. I’ve even had the harpist’s sheet music saved in the back of the large cream spiral binder that reads, ‘Zoe’s Wedding’ in sparkling diamanté. There was only one blank page, and I suppose it’s a biggie—the groom. I’ve never met anyone worthy of adding to my perfect day.