Kicking Reality

After my third round of drinks, my voice became louder as we fought to be heard over the music. With the sudden urge to pee, I remove my mic and tell Scarlett I’ll be back.

I somehow stumble my way to the bathroom, waiting in line and chatting with a few people. When I finish using the restroom, my vision becomes hazy and I forget which way I had to go.

“Jesus, can’t take you anywhere.”

I hear his voice but cannot see him. When I turn around, he is standing right behind me.

“Oh, there you are—Mr Hussy,” I tease, placing my hands on his chest for support. “Let me guess. You screwed a Playboy bunny already. Wait . . . maybe two.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m right.”

“I don’t like blondes or fake tits.”

“That’s not what your mom said.”

“What?” he asks in confusion.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I had nothing to come back with.”

“That’s not exactly a mom joke,” he chastises. “Stop drinking, okay? It’s like you’re nervous or something. In the limo, you were all weird.”

“No, you were all weird!”

“Wait.” He pauses with a smile. “Another non-comeback?”

“Logan,” I say in a soft voice, suddenly tired. “I just needed an escape from reality. Three shots and I’m almost there.”

He moves his head left then right, scanning the area then dragging me to a quieter section away from the bathroom. I notice his eyes look slightly red; tired and maybe from the shots the Playboy bunnies made him drink. “Are you drunk?”

“I had a few. Not as much as you. I thought you told Ash you were laying off the drink because the tabloids said you had a drinking problem?”

“Geez.” I lean on the wall, rolling my eyes at him. “Does Ash tell you everything? Don’t you have something better to talk about than me? What else does he tell you?”

“I don’t know.” He keeps his expression blank. “Are you hiding something?”

“Nope.” I hold his gaze. “I’ve pretty much told you everything. Wesley screwed some hookers, we’re pretending to be engaged for the sake of the show, and when I was eleven, I was the one that accidently threw your ball over the school fence which got eaten by that psycho dog.”

Logan stares back in astonishment. “That ball was signed by a soccer legend and you threw it over the fence?”

I lean in, playing with the lapel of his shirt, and sweetening my tone. “Accidently.”

“How do you accidently throw it over?”

With a pleasing smile, I alter my story to ease his pain. “My arm kinda slipped. Over instead of under.”

“You owe me,” he threatens.

“Yeah, add it to the list—buddy.”

“Buddy?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “I thought we had a deal.”

Lowering my head—to hide my grin—I cross my legs to ignore the delicious throb that began the moment he pulled me aside. Our petty arguments riled me up and now resulted in this—me wanting his tongue to run along the inside of my thigh.

You did not just say that out loud.

Shit!