A/N; The hangover is here.
Chapter 4 - Monday & Mistakes
Where was she?
Where was the eye piercing sunlight?
Where was the eye piercing cheetah print?
Shit, why was her head throbbing like that?
And why was there an arm on top of her?
A tanned, muscular, heavy arm, snaked around her like a vine on a thick branch. Well, maybe she was the vine and his arm was the branch.
Whatever.
The realization that she wasn't in her own room hit her like a snowball speeding downhill, her panic escalating with each added layer and reaching an all time high when she realized she was naked.
Right.
Shit.
It was his arm.
And she had touched much more than his arm the previous night.
She managed to unhook herself from his grip, quickly gathering her thrown around clothes without him as much as attempting to move.
He was apparently a heavy sleeper.
Something else they didn't have in common.
She closed the door quietly behind her, internally cursing at herself as she completed the walk of shame, luckily minus the judging audience.
...
Where was he? Right, his own bed. Naked.
Shit, why was his head throbbing like that? Right, tequila. Lots of it.
Where was she? The one answer he didn't have. Fuck.
The realization that she was no longer in his room hit him like a baseball headed for a home run.
And hurt just as much.
He knew he had messed up. He had done exactly what he shouldn't have. He was already regretting it, not because it hadn't been amazing, from what he could remember, it had been fucking fantastic, but because he knew she did. And because he had fucked her like she was any other, random girl, although he knew, instinctively, despite having just met her a couple of days ago, that she was anything but.
He had this eerie feeling that he needed her in his life, one way or another. And if he had somehow jeopardized that, all because he was a little, or maybe a lot, attracted to her, he would never forgive himself.
He wasn't going to let her sneak out of his room and think that she could sneak out of his life. Because that was exactly what she was trying to do.
She had wanted it, though. He was sure of it.
He had definitely wanted it, her, he still wanted it, her.
Again and again and again.
And then again.
Damn. His self-control was apparently much more abundant under sober conditions. They should put that in the warning text on the bottles.
"Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to use good judgement".
Oh, wait.
Maybe that was already common knowledge.
Yes, he had been drunk. But he should have known better either way.
...
She was in the shower, cleaning her body when all she wanted to do was clean her head. She was confused, both by her feelings running all over the place and the uncertainty of what was to happen next. She had no idea what she wanted to happen next. So she did the only thing she knew she was good at. She cried. Cried, unsure of the triggering emotion, while watching the water swirling into the drain along with her tears.
If her room had been suffocating before, it was downright strangling her now.
She needed to get out of there.
...
He knocked.
Again.
And again.
No answer.
...
She returned from her lengthy stroll, unsuccessful in clearing her head.
He was occupying it and she was trying to evict him. Over and over. At absolutely no avail.
He was by her door. Slouched down on the floor with his back resting up against it, his elbows resting on his knees and his head resting in his hands, as if he had been there for a while and had absolutely no intentions of leaving. Like ever.
She accidentally tripped, on herself, the sound of her body hitting the floor startling him.
Clumsy had once been her middle name.
Ally Clumsy Dawson.
Sounded about right.
He rose automatically, helping her up.
"Hi"
"Hi"
as their eyes met.
He looked as tired as she felt.
"I'm sorry", his voice uncertain, as if he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for yet sensing that she needed one.
She wasn't sure what to say. She wasn't quite sure she was even sorry.
He took her lack of responding as an indication that she was mad.
And she kind of was. Just not at him.
"I know I shouldn't have done that..."
"We shouldn't have done that, it wasn't all you. I mean, I'm pretty sure you asked me to stop you, and I'm a hundred percent sure I didn't, so the mistake is mine".
Her corrective interruption was ringing like pop music in his ears as his guilt over possibly haven taken advantage of her lessened some. He hadn't been wrong.
She had been wanting to sleep with him too.
Yet, the tune quickly turned into a depressing country ballad, as she had just confirmed his suspicion that she, in fact, thought of their night together as a mistake.
Ouch.
He had been brazing himself for it, predicting, even expecting, it. It hurt, but he wasn't surprised.
Sneaking away in the morning was, after all, the telltale sign of regret if there ever was one.
If she was a mistake it was the best one he had ever done. Literally.
It was quiet for a few eternal minutes, none of them knowing what to say, the silence of the building suddenly ear deafening.
"I...I don't care what we are, but I really, really want to continue to hang out with you. I much rather have you like me than sleep with me." He realized it was the absolute truth.
She felt bad. It was pretty clear that his conscious was gnawing away at him.
"Look, I...last night was, I don't know, amazing, I guess, from what I can remember...I don't know if I regret it, but I do know I can't do it again. I don't do grey."
He looked confused. "Grey areas. I don't do them. My world is black or white, all or nothing. And all is not currently an option for me, I'm honestly not sure if it ever will be again, so that leaves nothing..."
Nothing? How was that the only option?
"Once is an accident, twice is a bad habit. I'm not picking up on the routine of fucking random hot men who I barely know."
He sure hoped not.
Unless that hot man was him.
"What about friends?" His voice wasn't completely steady. "I mean, it might be better, anyways, you know, with my complication and all..."
Who was he kidding? He hadn't even talked to Cassidy since she left, and this was the first time she crossed his mind for days.
Why did that stab her like a butcher knife in the chest?
This was exactly why she wasn't doing this anymore.
She didn't like to feel things.
Damn it.
"I don't know". It was her honest answer.
"Just think of me as your roommate or something."
She almost laughed despite her somber mood. There was a big difference between her roommate and him. She may love Trish, but insanely attractive, she was not.
And, well, he was.
"I..I'll think about it."
He nodded. Guess that's all he had the right to ask for.
...
He was in his room, trying to finish the damn thing.
Nothing.
She was occupying his mind when he wanted her to occupy his life. She was unfortunately a reluctant tenant, because as he wanted her to sign a year-long lease, she didn't even want to commit to a month-to-month contract.
To say that the hesitant knock on his door a few hours later surprised him would be an understatement.
He opened and she smiled and suddenly he had no idea why he had been in such a bad mood.
"Ok."
He had never known that one word, two short letters, could make him feel so indescribably relieved.
And happy.
It hadn't been a difficult decision. She knew, despite trying to convince herself otherwise, that there was absolutely no way she was going to be able to stay away from him.
He couldn't believe he hugged her. He shouldn't.
She couldn't believe he hugged her. He should do, wait, shouldn't do that.
"So is it too early in the friendship to ask for a favor?"
"Probably not. I did ask you to feed me after less than 5 minutes of conversation."
"True. Good. I need a ride to pick up my car".
He almost shouted yes, still too excited.
She winced. "Please keep it down. I have a pretty horrible headache".
...
They pulled up outside of the bar, the car ride short and quiet.
"Thank you", her voice low as she exited and walked towards her car.
He knew she wasn't just referring to the ride.
He nodded. "Sure thing", realizing that there was nothing in the entire universe that she could ask him to do that he wouldn't.
Well, maybe murder.
Maybe.
Depending on who they were talking about.
Crap. His uncomplicated week was suddenly very, very complicated.
She was halfway to her car, when she suddenly stopped, abruptly, as if she just thought of something, turning around quickly so that she wouldn't change her mind.
"Come to my floor in an hour."
She didn't have to ask him twice.
He nodded in confirmation.
"Just one thing."
"What?"
"Please don't wear shorts."
...
She was wearing jeans. The tight material was accentuating her amazing ass. Just what he needed. All of a sudden he was wishing she was wearing shorts because anything would be better than the curve hugging excuse for pants that she was currently dressed in.
Luckily, he was soon distracted by something else.
The smell of food.
"You cooked me dinner?"
She smiled at his excitement. Had she been interested in finding the way to his heart, she was pretty sure food was one of the quickest routes.
"Yeah, it's a, I don't know...maybe peace offering?"
He hadn't known they were at war. If last night was an indication of how she treated her enemies, he wasn't sure he wanted to be her ally, although he wished for nothing more than for her to be his.
His ally.
But he would take ally over nothing any day.
"I brought you a gift", handing her a small box of Tylenol.
"Figured you might need it."
Oddly, seeing him in a good mood magically made her headache disappear, no painkillers needed.
"Thanks"
"It's what friends are for".
Interesting. "What else would you do for a friend?"
"A close one? Almost anything."
She thought about it. "Even eat pickles?"
He hesitated. That was pushing it.
He sighed. "Yes", laughing as he knew she would hold him to it.
He sat down at the old, beat-up table, the chair creaking from his weight, as he attacked the food as if there was no tomorrow.
"Mmmm..."
Damn animalistic sounds that had no effect on her whatsoever.
And his face of contentment, almost orgasmic, did nothing to her. Nothing at all.
They reached for the pot at the same time, their hands touching and only lingering for a few seconds too long.
And then they ate in agreeable silence, the sexual energy only barely contained and boiling hot like the pot of spaghetti underneath the surface.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
Good thing they were sober.
He managed to withhold his impulse of asking her to watch a movie together afterwards, knowing that he needed to give her the space that he was pretty sure she only thought she needed.
Either way, he needed to focus on what he was supposed to be preoccupied with.
He helped her clean up, then hugging her goodbye.
If she could have trusted herself to let it stay at just that, she would have loved to have him hug her for the entire night.
Or possible even forever.
He was a good hugger.
...
The late night door knock was loud, maybe even more so because it was unexpected.
She opened, hesitantly as she was in her PJs, not knowing what to expect.
"I wrote something and I need you to let me know what you think about it."
"Wrote what?"
"A song."
Well, she hadn't expected that.
He looked like a disorganized mess and it was breathtaking.
There was a guitar in his hand. Oh man, he had a guitar. Her one weakness if she ever had one.
She had had no clue that he was into music.
How would she? She didn't know him.
Wait a minute, Wednesday. The Bar. Open mic night. It clicked.
"Are you planning on performing at the bar on Wednesday?"
"If I can ever get this fucking song put together, then yeah."
"Ok, let's do it in the lounge. I mean sing it in the lounge."
To late. He had already pictured it.
"Just one thing first. Wait." He did. Impatiently.
She walked off towards the pantry, soon returning.
With a smile on her face.
And with the pickle jar in her hand.
"I'll listen to your song if you eat one."
He hesitated, knowing that he would give in but buying time.
"Come on, I tried the pancakes". And just like that, he caved. As he knew he would. It was her asking, after all.
Surprisingly, it was delicious, salty yet somehow sweet, a strange mix of flavors that oddly added up to something..good.
Just like her.
Who would have known that he actually liked pickles.
Maybe even loved them.
They entered the lounge, and all of a sudden he was shy. For some reason, he really cared about her opinion. Funny, he had never had performance anxiety before.
He started, unsurely at first, strumming the guitar, starting over once before his voice rang out into the fairly spacious room.
She soon forgot where she was as his voice seduced her into forgetfulness, the notes making slow love to her ear drums in sweet movements.
The song ended, way too quickly, and it took her a few seconds to find her voice again.
"That was amazing", realizing that she was telling the absolute truth and that she wasn't only talking about the song.
"Really?"
"I...I loved it."
He was beaming.
He knew he couldn't tell her that he had written it about her, because despite what the title of the song might be, it was undoubtedly and absolutely a love song.
He smiled, shyly, as his eyes met hers.
She smiled, shyly, as her eyes met his.
Was he supposed to forget about last night completely? Because it was challenging, to say the least. At the moment, all he could think of was her smell, her touch, her kisses, the way he had moved inside of her, the way she had pulled his hair, precisely the way he loved and the way that drove him absolutely insane.
Was she supposed to forget about last night completely? Because it was challenging, to say the least. At the moment, all she could think of was his smell, his touch, his kisses, the way he had moved inside of her, the way he had rubbed her, precisely the way she loved and the way that drove her absolutely insane.
Forget. Forget. Forget.
"Night, pickle." He needed to get out of there. Fast.
And she smiled as she walked to her room, alone, headed for a night of if not 8 full hours of sleep, at least a good 6.