Hendrix (Caldwell Brothers)

I was someone’s bitch, and I didn’t even know it.

I walk in the bar to see Jagger leaning over the bar, smiling as bright as one of those florescent beer signs hanging in my damn window. The way she is looking at him is bothersome to say the least.

In the time it took for me to go home and come back, she has worked her way from tipsy to sloppy drunk. Here she is, grinning at Jagger, drunk off her ass. Then, she fucking snorts when she laughs, and the proverbial glass panties now fit Miss Smutty Panties’s ass, covering up that sweet as fuck pussy.

“You about ready?” I ask both of them. Jagger is staying with me, so at least there is safety in numbers.

“I got a lady waiting down the block.” He winks at Livi then walks toward the door. “Take it easy on this little one. She’s shit-faced.”

Take it easy. Take it fucking easy?

As I walk around the bar and hit the lights, I glance over, and Livi looks away.

“You ready?” I ask as I walk around the bar.

“Yesss,” she slurs.

As she stands, she stumbles. I have to force myself to keep my hands from reaching out to make sure she doesn’t fall. While she grabs the bar to steady herself, I just stand and stare.

“I shouldn’t have done the shots,” she slurs again and then shrugs. “I’m not good at shots.”

I don’t respond because I am well aware of how she is with shots. Who the fuck says that? A half crazy and drunk girl.

“Or drinking actually. I’m really, really bad at drinking.”

I give her a moment to collect herself, taking some odd comfort in her being uncomfortable. Hell, I’m uncomfortable.

“That’s obvious. Look, let’s get you home.” I walk slowly so, if she falls, I can catch her.

When we make it outside, she laughs out loud, giving a little snort and covering her mouth. For a moment, I forget I’m angry with her for deceiving me, which is what I assume is exactly what she has done. Damn if she doesn’t make it hard to be angry with her, though. The little snort brings me back to the closet, which is where I wish the shit had stayed.

I catch her gaze as she takes in her car. Even in her drunken stupor, she is lit up in excitement. Her eyes are brilliant with a chaser of bloodshot, but either way, she is beaming.

“You did this?”

“It was nothing,” I say as I open the passenger door, playing it off that way.

“It certainly was—is—well, both,” she says as she crawls into her car. I swear she smells the seats before sitting back and moaning, “Oh. My. God. You even cleaned in here.” She peeks up at me through the open door.

“Can you sit back so I can shut the door?”

Once she does as I asked, I walk around the car, open the door, and start to get in. Livi is draped over the console, rubbing the steering wheel.

“You replaced the cover.”

“I know a guy, and he had some stuff lying around, no big deal.”

“It is a big deal. She’s gorgeous. I don’t ever remember this car looking like this.” She sits back, and I finish climbing in. “Thank you, Hendrix. Thank you so much.” She covers her face with both hands. “No one has ever”—she sniffs—“ever, ever, ever made me feel like you.” She stops and looks up. “Uh-oh, wrong story, wrong story.”

I am trying not to laugh. I’m supposed to be annoyed. Hell, if she isn’t making it difficult because she is fucked up. Nah, she is wasted.

“How about you get your apartment keys out of your bag, so, if you pass out on me, I can get you inside?”

“Of course,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Of course.”

I pull out on the street, and she still doesn’t sit up from digging in her purse. When I speed up, she giggles, finally sits up, but then suddenly holds her stomach. She stops giggling immediately and covers her mouth.

Oh, hell, I think as I pull over quickly.

I reach across her and open the door just in time for her to throw up, but she only half makes it out of the car. She doesn’t stop, either. The shit goes on forever.

I have her hair in my hands for two reasons: one, so she doesn’t puke on it; and two, because if she starts falling out, I have a firm enough grip that I’m sure I can prevent it and pull her back.

After she stops throwing up, she sits back, panting. I look around for something she could use to wipe her mouth off on. When I can’t find anything, I reach in my back pocket where I usually have a bar rag or a grease rag and hand it to her.