Was Bailey always this clumsy, or was this a by-product of how much alcohol she’d consumed? Either way, I had to catch her three times before we managed to exit the club, one of which was a close call after some drunken idiot plowed into her.
We finally made it to the coat check, got our jackets, and burst out onto the street. The din of downtown traffic and cool evening air greeted us, a welcome reprieve from ear-splitting cheesy pop remixes and the scent of sweaty bodies inside. Bailey bit her bottom lip and lingered by the door, hesitating like she was suddenly having second thoughts about leaving with me. But letting her go back into the club in her state was far riskier; she’d be a sitting duck for any creep who came along.
“Let’s walk,” I said, nodding my chin. “The fresh air will be good for you. I can order a ride on the way.”
Ironically, this was the outcome I’d been angling for earlier—going home with her—only minus the fun I’d hoped to have after.
But now that I thought about it, the optics of this situation weren’t great. Taking Derek James’s sister home when she was drunk off her ass would look pretty incriminating, even if my intentions were good.
“Okay.” She trailed beside me until we reached the corner, and I hit the button for the pedestrian crossing signal. A cacophony of horns and sirens echoed in the distance while we waited. The Walk signal illuminated, and I took a step out into the street.
Bailey held up a hand. “Wait.” She closed her eyes and swallowed audibly. Still frozen to the spot, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly between pursed lips.
Please tell me she wasn’t going to puke.
I stepped back up onto the sidewalk. “How much did you drink, anyway?”
She opened her big hazel eyes. Her impossibly long lashes fluttered as she blinked, trying to focus on me. “I dunno.” She shrugged, furrowing her brow. “Two vodka sevens and two shots of tequila? No, three shots. One had something else. Malibu, maybe?”
“You don’t drink much, huh?” I asked.
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Not really,” she admitted. “I turned twenty-one yesterday.”
Which means Morrison dumped her on her birthday. No wonder she was so drunk. Nice touch, dickbag. Not that I was surprised.
We resumed walking at a glacial pace while she made a concerted effort to remain upright. Great. At this rate, we would cover approximately one block per hour. Suddenly, a light mist of rain started to fall. Not enough to soak us, but enough to make us damp in that unpleasant, sticky-clothes kind of way.
“We need to get you home.” I pulled out my phone to order a ride. “What’s your address?”
“I’m in the brownstones on—” Bailey stopped short, putting a hand over her mouth. Turning, she gagged and proceeded to throw up in the row of tall green hedges beside her. I pocketed my phone, debating whether I should try to help her somehow or just stay out of her way. Before I could intervene, she straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“It’s 303 Park Lane,” she finished, staggering slightly. “Near south campus.”
Based on the way she was teetering from side to side like we were on a boat, this wasn’t the last we’d seen of the vomit. I’d bet on it.
“Let’s sit down for a second.” I guided Bailey over to a low wooden bench beneath a set of trees where we’d be partially sheltered from the rain. The instant she sat, she leaned over the side and retched again. Sympathy hit me; I’d been there before, and it sucked.
“Here.” I shifted closer and gathered up her long blond hair, holding it out of the way.
She whimpered something that sounded like “thank you,” but it was hard to tell for sure because it was interrupted by her gagging.
A group of loud, drunken people appeared around the corner. I shifted my body to block Bailey from their line of sight as they drew closer, trying to give her some semblance of privacy. Or at least as much privacy as one could have while vomiting on a public street.
“Are you—” I paused while she dry-heaved. “Are you okay?”
Usually, I was the recipient of that question. Things had gotten dire when I was the chaperone.
“I think so,” Bailey mumbled, pulling herself upright with my help. Once I was convinced she had her bearings, I let her go, and she immediately stumbled.
I wrapped my arm around her waist. “Do you want me to call your brother?”
Her eyes widened. “No. He would freak if he saw me like this. Especially with you.”
Good point.
Bailey fumbled around in her tiny black purse, emerging with a package of tissues and gum. She wiped her face and popped a piece into her mouth without offering me one, which was probably for the best; I had a feeling she was going to throw up again and need it for herself.
As we shuffled down the second street, the rain began to fall in earnest, soaking through our clothes. Her place was a good twenty-minute drive away. She wouldn’t make it that long in a car without emptying the remaining contents of her stomach on the floor. And if we kept up this pace, we would be drenched by the time we got there.
“Come on,” I said, steering her by the arm and changing directions. My place was five minutes away. It was the only option. At least until she stopped throwing up.
But then what? I couldn’t put her in a rideshare in this condition. Escorting her to her place on campus at this time of night wasn’t viable either, especially after crushing Callingwood in tonight’s game. There would be angry, drunken Bulldogs fans prowling campus, and I needed my limbs in working condition.
“Come on where?”
“You asked me to go home with you. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re going to my place.”
Bailey frowned. “Oh. Right.” She fell quiet for a moment. “Then can we have sex?”
“I prefer my companions sober enough to actually remember our encounter the next day,” I said dryly.
“I’m fine, I just…” She stopped and clutched my arm. She threw up again, but this time, she didn’t turn away fast enough. She missed the bushes, splattering my shoes a little in the process. One of the shots must have been blue. Lovely.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a no.”
“I can rally.”
“Look.” I spun her around to face me.
She peered back up at me innocently, her lips in a small pout. Somehow, she was still super hot.
“There is no scenario where that is happening tonight.”
Another night would be a different story. I wasn’t sure what it said about me, but even after seeing her vomit a night’s worth of drinks curbside, I would totally hit it. From on top, from behind, you name it.
“But you sleep with anyone with a pair of boobs.”
“Well, that’s not entirely—”
Her pout deepened. “Am I not pretty enough for you? You seemed to think so earlier.”
“You’re very pretty,” I said, fighting a smile. “And I didn’t say never. I said not tonight. Not while you’re in this condition. When we hook up—if we hook up—you’ll want to remember it.”
“Hmm. You are really hot.” Bailey sighed dreamily and ran her hands up and down my torso, probing the muscles beneath my shirt.
My cock perked up in response. But sadly, his services wouldn’t be needed this evening.
“It’s a shame you’re such a jerk.” She lost her balance and teetered to the side.
I caught her around the waist to stop her from falling off the curb as a car whizzed past. “It’s a shame you’re so rude.”
“More like honest.”
“Do you always lack a filter, or is this the booze talking?”
She tilted her head back and laughed. “I have no idea.” After a moment, her expression turned serious, inquisitive. With limpid eyes fixed on mine, probing, she asked, “Are you as good as everyone says?”
I shrugged. “You’ve seen me play.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I meant in bed.”
She sure knew how to stroke a guy’s ego. Too bad it was the only thing getting stroked tonight.