His head pounds.
Harder than a sledgehammer on concrete.
His back and neck feel stiff and sore. Why the hell was he so stiff and sore? And, when in the hell did his bed get so hard and cold? His brown eyes blink open blearily and he finds himself staring at the cold tile of Mel Burke's bathroom floor. The off-white tile makes him dizzy and his stomach knots up, bile rushing up into his esophagus. Well, at least he knew why he was stiff and sore and slightly cold. Unfortunately, that only created more questions than it answered. The lid on her toilet seat is raised for once - she was a female, this is unusual. She would throw a fit if she saw it up. He hefts himself up into the best sitting position he can manage, wanting to put it down and get out before she came in for her morning shower.
Damn. That really hurts.
"Sick, again?" A groggy voice questions from somewhere to his left.
When he looks, he's surprised to find Mel Burke curled up against her bathtub in favorite pink terry cloth bathrobe. She looks uncomfortable and exhausted, leaning against the ivory porcelain. His eyes feel gritty and dry, like he's had sand blown into them repeatedly. He tries to focus but in this condition, she's nothing more than a pink blur that's becoming painful to look at. He squeezes his eyes shut and twists his body toward the toilet, every single muscle in his abdomen screaming in protest when he dry heaves into the toilet.
"What happened?" His voice sounds like rough-grit sandpaper and it feels like someone had taken a cheese grater to his throat.
She moves, unfurling and stretching out like a cat. Her blonde curls are tangled and her eyes are bleary and red. She motions to the lumpy pile in the corner of her bathroom that may or may not have at one time been his t-shirt. "You went out and got sloppy drunk last night."
"Is that my t-shirt?" He looks up at her, dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
"Yes. Feel free to examine it closer, if you need proof." Mel offers him a grin that's a little more amused than he's comfortable with at the moment. "You should avoid tequila from now until the end of time. You cannot hold that much liquor."
"How much did I drink?" He's practically hugging the toilet now, his arms draped over the rim of the bowl and his head tucked in his chest.
"Well I don't know how much was gone when you started but when I got to where you went last night, you were working on the last of a bottle of tequila." Mel answers, standing up on sore, shaky legs. "I'd say you had more than half a bottle. It's really surprising that you can't hold your tequila especially when I've seen you drink stronger."
"Never half a bottle, Burke." He snarls irritably, barely lifting his head to look at her. He softens considerbly when his stomach knots tensely and nausea throbs heavily in the back of his throat. He breathes heavily and seeks an answer to the question that's been bugging him since he woke up. "Why did I wake up on your bathroom floor?"
"Well, I tried to get you to your room but it seems that you had other ideas, or your stomach, rather." Mel grins like the Chesire Cat, clearly gleeful at the thought of relaying the events of the previous night to him. "By the time you were done, you had puked on your t-shirt and in the toilet, twice. By round three, there was nothing left and you were too weak to move and I'm not strong enough to move you. What with your Popeye muscles."
Joe just laughs and lifts his head, "That bad, huh?"
"Yes." She nods, looking down at him. "I'm going to make some coffee. Think you can make it downstairs or will you have your aspirin with a side of toilet water?"
"I think I can make it."
Oh. Good Lord. Between the nausea and the dizziness, he's not sure if moving in a downward motion is going to do anything but result in immediate unconsciousness and possible head injuries, but he really needs to move before his body stiffens even more. She holds his hand as she leads him to the stairs. It feels good to hold onto something soft and warm instead of the hard, cold porcelain of her toilet. He likes the feel of her hand in his. The stairs look daunting and he can feel the edges of unconsciousness blurring his vision.
"Just a few steps to the kitchen, can you make it?" She asks him quietly; her voice barely above a gentle hum.
"Yeah." Joe nods, although that's not entirely true. He doesn't think he can make it to the kitchen. The only place he sees himself going is to the hospital with a concussion and a hangover from hell but he's going to try.
The first step is fine. Even though it just seems to stir the couldron of dizziness and nausea that is boiling in his head, it's fine. It's every stair after that, that poses the problem. He trudges and comes close to losing it a couple of times and he's pretty sure he sees her shake with uncontrollable laughter but he makes it to the table without incident. She leaves him be while she puts the coffee on and retrieves a bottle of water and two aspirin tablets.
"So, care to tell me what brought about the need for booze?" Mel questions softly, keeping her voice quiet until normal volumes don't make his head pound with earth-shattering pain. She presses the bottle of water into his palm and carefully sets the aspirin on the table before taking a seat next to him. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm sure whatever it was, booze was the cure. Booze is always the cure, this just isn't like you. This is me, not you. I'm the wreckless one."
He just laughs - well smiles, laughing requires more effort than he's willing to put forth - and pops the aspirin in his mouth. "You aren't wreckless."
"Joe, I can't remember the five years from sixteen until I was legally old enough to drink." Mel retorts, leaning back into her chair. "Believe me, I am wreckless."
He doesn't feel like arguing, mostly because if those aspirin don't kick in soon, he's going to wreck her favorite robe with whatever's left in his stomach. She isn't wreckless. He's the wreckless one now. He's the one that left Lennox and Ryder on their own because he needed a drink to mollify his own jealousy. He's the one who went out and drank more tequila than should be legal. He's the one who decided that booze was a way to forget his feelings - for all the damn good, that did him.
"Mel, listen, about last night, can we just forget this ever happened?" Joe downs half of his water, hoping that it'll flush whatever's left of the alcohol out of his system.
"Joe, c'mon, I don't know you that well but I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't go out unless you had a reason." Mel reaches over to wrap her hand around his wrist only to have him yank it out of her reach. "Joe?"
"Mel, please." Joe shakes his head. Oh. God. Bad idea. Very bad idea. He settles for looking down at his lap. "Don't."
"Just tell me," Mel prods him, though he doesn't think she knows the consequences. "How much harm could it do?"
"A lot." He mumbles hoarsely. He knows she's going to push until it all comes out so he decides to just go for it. "You really want to know?"
"If you want to tell me," Mel nods, reaching for him again.
This time, though, his hand slips into hers and he interlaces their fingers - tightly. It's comforting, to both of them, after a long night. They need the closeness and he needs to know that she's not going to run screaming when he starts talking. He takes a deep breath, although whether it's steel his nerves or stop himself from throwing up, he's not quite sure. Either way, confession time is upon him and no evasive maneuver can get him out of it.
"Mel, last night, I went out and got drunk because you went out on a date." He tells her, not stopping to gauge her reaction before he continues. "I was jealous and not because you had a date and I didn't. I was jealous because you were on a date with some guy who wasn't me."
"Joe, are you saying - ?" She doesn't want to say it because she's afraid it's not true. She wants it to be true. She needs it to be true. She needs to know that he likes her because she likes him too.
Joe releases a breath and smiles gently, tenderly almost. His voice is hoarse, as if he can barely talk. "I like you, Mel. I wanted to be the one to take you out last night."
There's complete silence for just a moment before she's up, out of her chair and moving. He just hangs his head, already knowing what her answer is. He looks up in surprise when her warm hands cup his face and none too gently, either. She meets his eyes, her icy blue gaze boring into his chocolate brown eyes, before moving toward him and - oh. Well, that answered that question. Good Lord.
Her lips feel like literal silk and her dominance and knowledge on the proper way to kiss a man is really doing things to him. Things that shouldn't be possible when he feels like death. Things that could get them both in trouble. And he really wishes he had remembered to brush his teeth. Clearly, she isn't worried because she sinks into his lap, straddling him. His arms wrap around her, pink fabric bunching between his fingers as his hands find her back. She pushes, mewling and keening into his mouth when he refuses to give in, pushing back because he is a male and he craves dominance. She's warm and soft above him and he just wants her damn bathrobe out of his way. He digs a hand into her hair near the nape of her neck, seeking out flesh. He finds what he's looking for and curls his fingers into the softness of her skin.
She pulls away to breathe and smiles at him. It's endearing and sexy as hell, at the same damn time and he wants nothing more than to push her onto the kitchen table and show her exactly what she does to him. But he can't. Because it's all new and fresh and he doesn't want to push it. He doesn't want to ruin it - since clearly the tequila hadn't already.
"I like you too, Joe." With that said, she disappears up the stairs to start her day.
For once in his life, Joe Longo is rendered speechless. Absolutely speechless. Not even his super-hot ex-wife had been able to do this to him; hold this kind of power over him. She wouldn't have dreamed of staying up with him after a few too many drinks leaves him helpless on a bathroom floor. Well, that's not entirely true, she had been there. Usually holding the bottle, offering him more, but still. It's the thought that counts. Mel Burke, however, was very different. Not only did she stay up with him, she kissed him, even though he tasted like old tequila and stomach acid.
Yeah. He definitely owed David the bartender a debt of gratitude.
Do bartenders accept gift baskets?
