Is it possible that I've written something other than Dizzie fluff? Yes, and I'm actually returning to my roots - my first LBD fic was a tiny angsty inner monologue for Lydia. I'm nervous about this because, um, I've never been drunk. Hope it's somewhat convincing.
She had almost had enough drinks to forget everything. Almost. Somewhere in the blurry edges (very, very blurry edges) of her consciousness, she was still aware of the fact that her sister thought she was nothing but an empty-headed party girl. And it didn't matter how blurry the thought was. It was still sharp enough to sting. So she ordered another drink, and she'd keep ordering them till all her thoughts were drowned in blissful boozy nothingness.
"You sure you want another?" That was the waitress, a fake blonde whose dark roots were showing.
"Duh," Lydia said, scowling up at her through the haze. "You sure you want a tip?" The words felt kind of good spilling out of her mouth, clever and mean. She wasn't usually a mean drunk. Drinking made her bubbly, the center of the party. Not tonight. The party had left her for some stupid museum, and she was alone and being mean felt good.
"Sure," the waitress said with narrowed eyes. Lydia watched her walk to the bar and talk to a guy in a suit. Manager, probably. What, were they going to kick her out? What was the point of having all that alcohol if they wouldn't even let you get properly drunk? Her face hardened into an angry stone statue as the suit guy came around, pretending to smile at her.
"Miss, I'm afraid you've had the maximum number of drinks we allow. You're welcome to have some water or soda –"
"Don't want that," Lydia said loudly. "I wanna drink. You think I can't hold my liquor or summthin? Think I'm jus' some stupid little girl playing grownup?" She fumbled for her bag and dug around for her I.D. "See?" She shoved it in his face, and he backed up a little. She liked the thought that she was scary. "21. I'm old." Something like a broken laugh escaped her mouth. "All grown-up. This one's not fake. I can drink." Another laugh that morphed into a hiccup. "I've had a lotta practice."
Why was it so quiet in here all of a sudden? Everybody was looking at her, but not in a good, life-of-the-party way. Maybe she had been shouting. She couldn't remember. The suit guy wasn't pretending to smile anymore. "Miss," he said again, quietly, "do you need to be escorted out?"
"No," she snapped. "I'm staying here till I get my drink."
"You can either leave on your own," he said, "or you can be escorted."
She folded her arms and told him to go to hell.
Things were really hazy after that. Suit guy put a hand on her shoulder, and she might have pushed him away, or punched him or kicked him, maybe even bit him. There was a lot of noise in place of the silence, filling her ears like rushing water, and it was also possible she puked all over the floor. She was suffocating, something was holding her still and she fought and fought and fought to get free until a voice sounded in her ears that didn't belong to the suit guy. "Hey. I'm trying to help you out here. Couldn't you do me the favor of not killing me?"
She blinked, squirmed around and faced a pair of gorgeous blue eyes. "George?" she croaked. She'd run into him hours ago, around the time she filmed her video, when she was just slightly more sober. And then she remembered that he, like everyone else, thought Lizzie's videos were way cooler and more interesting and all that crap, and she wasn't in a mood to laugh it off this time. She pushed him back. "Go 'way. Don' need your help."
"Sure you don't," he said, flashing that dazzling smile. "You've got things totally under control. You were just about to leave this lame place anyway, weren't you?"
"Sure," she said, wishing her stomach would stop doing somersaults every time she opened her mouth. "Totes lame."
He looped her arm around his neck, and they started for the door. Somehow George managed to maintain his jaunty, carefree stride even with her practically hanging on him for dear life. She was pretty sure the floor was surging up and down in horrible erratic waves. She barely made it outside before puking again. A lot of it got on George's shirt. She wasn't sure if she managed to apologize. Talking seemed like a terrible idea right now.
"It's okay," he said, brushing her hair away from her face while she hunched miserably over the sidewalk. "I hated this shirt anyway."
She shook in silent, involuntary laughter.
"Come on. We've gotta get you to bed." He helped her to her feet. "Where are you staying?"
"Dunno. Figured I'd find somewhere to crash," pause for a really nasty hiccup, "when I needed it."
"No problem. I'll get you a room."
She heaved her head around to look at him, no small feat when the entire world was spinning. "Lucky you're so hot. Or else I'd totes think you were, like, seducing me."
He chuckled. "Wouldn't think of it. I can promise you, I'll be a perfect gentleman."
She couldn't remember where her car was, but he pulled out her keys and clicked the button to discover it was practically right next to them. "Mind if I drive?" he asked.
She giggled. "Yeah. Cause I totes wanna do it myself and crash us into a wall." She let him put her in the passenger seat, curled up and let the dark overtake her while George started the engine.
Next thing she knew, he was helping her into a motel room. She must have walked there from the car; she knew he hadn't carried her, but it was all a blank patch on her memory. "You pay for this?" she said, looking at him fuzzily.
He shrugged. "Not a big deal. It's cheap. Sorry I couldn't get you someplace nicer."
"Whatevs. You do all that and apologize?" Her mean edge had evaporated, leaving a pleasant numbness. He was even more gorgeous through that haze, and she found herself wanting to touch him, pull him closer.
"Gross," he said, and she was confused until she realized he was looking at his stained shirt. It did smell pretty bad.
"Sorry."
"Nah, I just thought it might be making you feel sicker." In one sleek motion, he pulled the shirt over his head. She stared at his perfect abs, mesmerized.
Breathlessly she said, "Thanks."
He grinned, went to the tiny little bathroom and came back with a cup of water. "To get the bad taste out."
"Thanks," she said again, and took a sip.
"Hey, you get some sleep. I'll get you some aspirin for the morning. I'm pretty sure you'll want it."
She grabbed his hand. "Don't leave."
"Lydia," he said, softly. She couldn't remember him ever saying her name before. That was weird. He should have said her name at least once during all the time he knew her. It wasn't fair. But it shouldn't surprise her. She was just Lizzie's little sister.
Now Lizzie seemed very far away.
Screw it. Suddenly she was yanking him to the bed, doing what she'd wanted to do for a long time. They were messy, dirty kisses, the kind of drunken making-out her sister absolutely hated. It was awesome. George didn't respond to her like she was someone's little sister. He pushed closer, hands roaming up and down her back, whispering her name in the little breaths between kisses.
She was about to pull her own shirt off when George broke away mid-kiss. He looked so good, hair tousled, lips swollen, but he was frowning. "Hey. Maybe you should sleep."
"It's my puke-breath, isn't it?" she said, trying to be funny, to pretend his words weren't stabbing through her blissful haze.
"No, no," he said quickly, half-grinning, "no complaints in that department. I'm just kind of thinking – I'd like to see you sober."
What did that mean?
He winked. "I like this Lydia, don't get me wrong. But I think I'd really like sober Lydia."
She looked at him, then down at her hand resting on his irresistible bare chest. Scowling, she pulled her hand away. "Fine. Your loss."
There were a few more blank patches, but she was definitely fully clothed when George tucked her into bed. Next thing she knew was a killer headache the next morning. The usual side effect of boozy bliss.
George was gone, but there was aspirin next to the cup of water, just like he'd promised. He'd also left a note with his phone number. She took both.