You Own Me (Owned 1)

“Where were you?” I asked. “I woke up in a red haze and thought the apocalypse had come.” Whoa. Too many words and too fast. I sat down next to Vic, trying to calm the rolling seas that had become my stomach.

“You’ve been watching too much television, Lenny,” Vic said sleepily. “The red light is a heat lamp. I turned it on so you didn’t get cold.”

I nodded, and then regretted the action immediately. The smell of vomit invaded my nose and I could feel my stomach revolting. Oh God, was that smell me? As if sensing my question or seeing my expression, Vic spoke.

“You threw up for hours.”

I stared at him, baffled.

He continued, “It’s all in your hair. Your clothes, too. That’s why you’re—” He gestured to my nakedness. “I tried to get you to throw up in the toilet, but you refused. So I aimed your head over the tub, because, well, that’s a much larger target. But, nope, Lenny wasn’t having any of that. You went all Linda Blaire on my ass and vomited anywhere but where I wanted. So, I just stripped you down and let you vomit all over the bathroom.”

I gaped at him in horror. This was beyond embarrassing. This was mortifying.

I buried my head in my hands.

“When you finished, or at least, settled down, I cleaned up the bathroom and washed the sheets. I did as much with the mattress as I could, but I think it’s a goner. There wasn’t anything I could do about washing you up, though. I did try, but you started fighting me about it, so . . .” Vic shrugged.

I peeked through my fingers. This couldn’t be happening.

“What’s wrong with the mattress?” I asked, my voice small.

Vic gave me a level look. “You don’t think you started off in the bathroom, do you? Do you remember anything?”

I shook my head carefully. “The last thing I remember is you taking me upstairs.”

Vic grimaced. “Let’s see. We walked upstairs. You started getting a little—uh—frisky. Which I’m perfectly okay with, babe.” Vic winked. “But your words were slurred and you couldn’t walk, so I didn’t take you up on your offer. I tried to get you to tell me how much you had to drink, but you didn’t understand me. You passed out on the bed. I placed a trash can next to you thinking if you needed to vomit, you could vomit into that.”

The grave way Vic spoke I could tell the story wasn’t as simple as a trash can on my side of the bed. I couldn’t look at him. I stared at my knees, trying not to smell the vomit in my hair and really trying not to vomit again.

“I woke up,” Vic continued, “to the sound of you choking on your own vomit.”

I looked up at that. Vic was staring at me intensely. He looked pissed. Furious, even. I turned my attention away, ashamed.

“What the hell, Lenny?”

“I don’t know,” I responded meekly.

“How could you drink that much?” Vic demanded. “If I wasn’t there, you would have died.”

“I know.” My voice was barely above a whisper. I felt like shit, not just because of the alcohol, but because of my actions. I hadn’t been this irresponsible since high school.

“So what?”

I shrugged. “I’m really sorry.” And I was. I was ashamed and embarrassed and so sorry. He’d cleaned up after me and taken care of me like I was an infant. I felt horrible. He’d saved my life more than once now. How do you make that up to someone? Indentured servitude came to mind.

“That doesn’t cut it,” Vic said flatly. He wasn’t yelling at me, which would have been better than the way he was talking to me. This Vic was cold and distant; I felt like he was slipping away.

“Are you angry?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What can I do?” I pleaded. I hated the idea of him being angry with me. More than that, I hated that he was angry with me and acting like he didn’t care. I was worried I’d pushed it too far.

Vic shrugged. “Nothing, babe. You scared me last night. I’m angry. It’s a trust you’ll have to regain. It’s not going to happen in a day.”

I could feel tears forming in my eyes. Just my luck—my tear allotment had been replenished.

I felt like shit. There was a year’s worth of vomit coating my hair. I felt like I had to do something to make this situation better.