Sweet Little Nothing

But, I won’t.

Drunk girls never amount to much in the sack, and the thought of taking physical advantage of her leaves me with a sick taste in the back of my throat.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do!” She stomps her foot and then stumbles into me. “I-I don’t feel so good.”

“Are you okay? What do you need?”

Her eyes are wide with panic, and her cheeks are no longer glowing, but pale. “I-I don’t know. I feel dizzying.”

“Dizzying, huh?”

“Everything’s spinning. Make it stop.” A sliver of regret tugs at my heart as a lone tear rolls her down her cheek. “I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“My place.”

“What? Why?”

“You need someone to look after you, Emmalyn.”

“And you’re-you are going to?” She hiccups. “Do that?”

“I am.”

She mumbles an unintelligible reply and leans farther into me. I loop an arm around her waist for support and walk us toward the exit. She comes without a fight and, by some miracle, we make it to my Jag without any trouble.

Now we just need to make it back to my place without her defiling the leather of my car.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sterling

“Give me your phone.”

Emmalyn groans and rests her head against the passenger window.

“Come on, hand it over.”

“Hand what?” she mumbles, her breath fogging the glass.

“Your phone.” I’m already over her drunken bullshit, which is unfortunate, since I only have myself to blame.

“Your voice is kind of yummy.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Be that as it may, I still need your phone.”

“Get it then.” She flops toward the door, just barely lifting her ass from the seat. “In my pocket.”

Not exactly how I imagined the next time I’d grab her ass...

I lean over the console and retrieve her phone from her back pocket, taking care not to let my hand linger. “Passcode? No, forget it. Give me your hand.”

She plops back down and rolls her head my way, flinging her arm into my lap.

“You’re a sloppy drunk, Emmalyn.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too. You went from tipsy to shitfaced in the blink of an eye.”

“Whatever.”

I press her thumb over the sensor on her screen, unlocking it. I pull up her text thread with her roommate and fire off a quick message.

Me: It’s Sterling. Emmalyn’s shitfaced. I’m taking her home with me.

Much to my surprise, she texts back instantly.

Stella: Hurt her and die.

Me: She’s in good hands.

Stella: To be determined.

By the time I close out of the thread, Emmalyn is fast asleep. Temptation sits on my chest, my fingers itching to snoop.

It’s not like she’ll ever know...

I tap out of the thread with Stella and scroll through all of her messages.

Stella

Sterling

Mommy Dearest

Gabe

Zach

Five. She has a grand total of five text threads. It’s... fuck. It’s pathetic, really. However, that doesn’t stop me from reading through them all.

The texts between Emmalyn and her friends hold little to no useful information, but her thread with her mother is enlightening, to say the least.

I always knew Sarah Pearson was a piece of work, but the way she speaks to her daughter leaves a hell of a bad taste in my mouth. And there’s literally been one contact with Emmy since she got here. One.

My dad’s been known to be an epic asshole; so much so, that my mother divorced him—twice. But even he would never speak to me the way Emmalyn’s mom does her. She’s cold and dismissive.

It makes me wonder, more than ever, what really went down between her and Rob.

After tossing her phone into the cupholder, I lean back across the center console to buckle her seat belt. She stirs slightly when it clicks into place, mumbles under her breath, and turns away from me.

I punch the start button and drive us back to my place, hoping she’s not down for the night. I’d like to ask her a few questions while she’s more likely to speak truth—assuming she can sober up enough to hold a coherent conversation, that is.

By the time I make it home, Emmalyn is starting to wake.

“What? Where... Sterling?”

“Let’s get you inside.” I cut the engine. “Stay put and I’ll help you.”

I pocket my keys and her phone before moving to the passenger side. She tries to open the door on her own, but can’t quite seem to swing it out far enough to stop it from closing on her.

“I said to stay put,” I scold her, using my body to keep the door in place.

“I’m tired.”

“I’ll make you some coffee.”

She perks up a little at the mention and allows me to haul her from her seat.

“You steady?” I ask, reluctantly liking the feel of her body tucked into mine.

At her nod, I step away, but she stumbles instantly. “Ugh!”

“Not so much then.” I guide her arm around my shoulders and wrap mine around her waist. “Come on.”

We make it inside without a hitch, and I deposit her on the couch. “Coffee coming up, little mouse. Don’t puke on my couch.”