A Sticky Situation (Awkward Love 7)

I nod and rush over to Sasha, who grabs my arm, and yanks me out the door. Once we’re out of earshot, she turns to me, her eyes wide with excitement. I shake my head, because that was not exciting, or fun, or whatever the hell else she’s about to call it. It was painstakingly embarrassing.

“How cool was that?” she hisses.

“Cool?” I laugh. “That was not cool. He thinks we’re dipshits.”

“So?” She rolls her eyes. “At least he knows who we are.”

I shake my head. As if that’s important. He already knew who I was, as much as I wish he didn’t. Unfortunately for me, the second impression wasn’t much better than the first. There’s one thing I’m sure about, and that’s babysitting Brix Wilson.

I can’t do it.

“Seriously, sneaking into his room? What are you, twelve?”

I turn around and smile sweetly at Lisa.

“Sounds like someone’s a little jealous.”

“Of what?” she snorts. “You? Hardly. You’re on your way out of here anyway,” she sneers.

I narrow my eyes at her. I’m about to respond when I feel Sasha jabbing me in the side. I breath in, calming myself down. She’s right. Lisa’s not worth getting myself worked up over.

“Whatever, Lisa.” I turn to Sasha. “Can I trust you not to perform any more room searches?” I tease.

“After that disaster, you can trust me to go nowhere near room fifty-two,” she assures me. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

I nod and walk off, waving back at her and completely ignoring Lisa.

Sliding into my car, I rest my head against the wheel with much more force than I intended, setting the horn off. I wince as people around me turn to stare. I laugh, because this week is up there as the shittiest of my life. How am I going to get out of this? I feel sick just thinking about it. How can they expect me to drive him around like I’m his personal fucking driver? It’s not why I spent four years in college. There’s got to be a way out of this.

There’s only one person devious enough to help me.Chapter 6Hannah“Lou?” I yell out, pounding on her door.

“For fuck’s sake,” I hear her mutter through the door before she rips it open. Her annoyance does a complete one eighty when she sees me standing there. “Oh, hey. Come in.”

She steps aside, and then she peeks out into the hallway, before quickly shutting the door and bolting it locked. “Sorry, I thought you were my neighbor. She keeps bringing me freaking pot roasts,” Lou explains, shaking her head.

“Isn’t your neighbor like eighty-years-old?” I ask. I’ve seen her a few times hobbling around on her walking frame. “Because that’s kind of sweet.”

“Ninety-two,” Lou corrects, her voice glum. “and it’s not sweet. It’s annoying.”

I chuckle. “I think your confusing attitude with gratitude,” I tease.

“I would be grateful if the old girl could actually cook, but her food tastes like death. I ate the first meal she made me and had the shits for a week,” she complains. “My asshole still stings. Seriously, her cooking would be an asset to any warfare program.”

“Lou,” I gasp, both cringing and laughing at the same time.

“What did I say?” she asks innocently.

“Uh, everything?” I say, gagging.

Lou snorts. “You’re a nurse. How can anything be an overshare? You wipe asses and then eat your dinner, all in the same breath. Though I guess in rehab there’d be a lot less ass wiping going on.”

“You’d be surprised, actually,” I admit. “Coming down from the high of substance abuse does weird and wonderful things to the body.”

“Anyhow, now she thinks I like her cooking, so she’s always bringing me stuff. She even asked me over for dinner. How the fuck do I get out of that?”

I sigh and rest my head against the kitchen counter as Lou babbles away. Thinking about work has me thinking about Brix. Lou peers at me closely.

“Hey, are you okay? Coz you look like shit,” she adds.

“Then I must look better than I feel.” I moan, gently banging my head against the marbled surface. Maybe I can concuss my way to temporary memory loss?

“What’s going on? Did something happen at work?” she asks concerned. “Or is it your sister again? Your mom? Sophie?”

I laugh in spite of the situation, because she’s running out of people to blame. She’ll never guess the real cause, though. After a few minutes of silence, she takes my arm and leads me over to the couch. I sit and she plants herself down next to me. I feel sick just thinking about telling her, because putting it out there means I can’t pretend that it didn’t happen. Then again, when there’s memes dedicated to the incident, it’s probably too late.

“Drink?” she offers. “Water? Soda? Wine? Scotch? I can keep going up in strength, depending on how bad the situation is,” she quips.