Don't Promise (Don't 3)

I stumbled back.

“Are you drunk?” Her eyes widened.

“Fuck yeah. You have a problem with that?”

“Is this my fault? Have you been drinking for two days? I called Linc and he said you had a cold. This isn’t a cold. This is stupid.”

“Go back to Nashville, Alexa.” I started to close the door in her face, but her palm slammed on my initials.

“No. You are going to hear me out, Luke.”

She busted past the loose hold I had on the double doors and marched into the living room. She was a blurry whirl of glitter and sequins. I couldn’t keep up. I was fucking drunk.

She stood in front of the fireplace. I tried to keep my focus on her, but the room spun.

“You need to get in bed.” She looked at me. “You are drunker than I thought.”

Before I knew it, she had my arm over her slender shoulder and started to push me toward the bedroom.

“You are not getting in my bed,” I threatened.

“I know,” she whispered. “But you need to sleep this off and we can talk in the morning.”

“I don’t know about that.” I shook my head.

But as soon as I saw my bed, I collapsed in a heap. I felt the tug of my jeans, but I was too exhausted to fight her. Her cool hands worked the pants off and she slid me under the covers with some effort. She returned a few minutes later with a tall glass of water and some ibuprofen.

“Take these and then I’ll let you sleep.”

I scowled at her, but tossed them on my tongue.

“Good night, Luke.” She turned off the light and closed the door.

The next morning the hangover wasn’t as brutal as I thought, but I was pretty sure I had dreamed Alexa had appeared on my doorstep. I walked to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth.

When I walked into the kitchen, I realized it wasn’t a dream. There was a pot of coffee and a gorgeous blonde in my kitchen.

“Good morning.” She smiled. “How are you feeling?”

I rubbed the back of my head. “Like you aren’t supposed to be here.” I’d never tossed a woman out of my house before.

“I came to tell you my side of the story. Don’t I deserve that? I’ve given you that more than once.”

She walked toward the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee. She placed one in front of me.

“I don’t know. I’m fucking pissed right now. You lied to me.”

“I thought you would be mad.”

“I am mad.”

She closed her eyes and slid into the seat. She wasn’t going anywhere. She was as stubborn as I was. I sat across from her.

“You can be mad. But you can also listen.” She glared at me.

I felt ambushed. She had jumped me when I was down. When I was too drunk to protest. The agony of what I had been through the past two days was enough to never attempt it again. I thought I found a way to drown out the noise with bourbon and vodka. Enough to numb the pain. Enough to erase her.

But fuck. She was close enough I could smell her hair. I could reach out and touch her if I wanted. And then the jab of the knife twisted under my lowest rib and I remembered the betrayal. The fucking dishonesty that was sitting at this table too.