Handful by C.R. Grissom
CHAPTER FIVE
Kirsty
Never drink with senior citizens. They will drink you under the table then have the audacity to look radiant the next day.
I wake to a feeling of someone hovering near me, but I keep my eyes stubbornly closed to hold on to the sexy dream before it fades. Not fair because Everest’s sexy hands hovered at his fly, unzipping his jeans inch by tantalizing inch. We didn’t make it to the good stuff yet.
Dammit.
Collin loves to scare me awake or just breathe on me to get me to open my eyes, like he’s doing now. My pounding head and thudding heart can’t take his little boy tricks while booze sloshes through my stomach.
Wait, what?Apparently, my head and stomach are on opposite sides of the country because I’m not back home dreaming about the savage-hot Fortis lineman who I have no business fantasizing about anyway.
Whispering cuts through the fog in my brain and my eyes pop open.
Agnes, the matron of honor, leans over me holding a compact mirror near my mouth.
“What are you doing?” I ask carefully, afraid to move.
“Checking to see if you’re still breathing. After last night, it could have gone either way.” She slips the compact into the front pocket of her robe. Her platinum-blonde hair swings in a sassy, chin-length bob. “Damn, I’ve never smelled something that bad coming from a human mouth,” she declares, waving her hand in front of her face. “And I partied in the seventies.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, but not before getting a whiff. Holy cow! My breath reeks of an indescribable foulness.
“Only one thing left to do,” she murmurs. “If I were you, I’d track down the sonofabitch who pooped in your mouth.”
My jaw drops, and then I realize she’s joking. Good one. I remember challenging Agnes to a drinking contest last night. Note to self: stop betting.
I glance at the woman who drank me under the table at the bachelorette party. If anything, she looks younger than she did yesterday. How is that even possible?
“Agnes.” Phoebe chokes on her laugh. “Stop pestering her.”
Faith squats beside me with a glass of water in hand. “Hey, you. Take these.” She passes me three Tylenol tablets. “Drink this now. Caleb is on his way with a sports drink.”
“Did you ask him to get blue?” I can’t drink any other color. Yellow looks like pee, and orange reminds me of watered-down Tang in the worst way possible. Red should be delish, but it’s like someone screwed up a recipe for punch then bottled it for sale anyway. Ick. With blue, I pretend I’m drinking diluted ocean water—without the fish stink or taste.
“Did you think I’d forget?” Faith asks, helping me into a sitting position.
I take a good look at Faith. Her curly hair is twisted into a complicated updo, and she’s wearing makeup. “Faith, don’t let me breathe on you. I’ll ruin your hair,” I lament, turning my face from her.
She snorts out a laugh. “Just because you feel like you’re breathing fire, it’s not actually happening. You need to get into the shower. We let you sleep as long as possible.”
I wrap myself in the blanket that covered me while I slept, striving to forget the dirty dream about Everest. I mean, sure, fantasies are harmless. Men are off-limits, I remind myself.
Faith keeps her arm around me while we navigate toward the bathroom in our three-bedroom suite. My first hangover netted me a stomachache and shaking hands. I’m super fuzzy on the details from last night. I hope I didn’t make an ass of myself. My head pounds along with every beat of my heart. Something must have crawled inside my brain with a hammer. I wish it would take pity on me and stop smashing my brain cells to bits.
We step into the bathroom and I recoil at my reflection. My face looks deathly gray. Two red splotches color my cheeks, matching my bloodshot eyes, making the green of my irises even lighter and more catlike. I’m surprised my pupils didn’t shift to vertical slits, too. The strip of fake eyelashes once affixed to my right eyelid is now glued to my eyebrow. The left side is missing in action.
“Tell me that happened while I slept and not when we were at the mansion.” I pull the eyelashes off and stick the strip to the white marble counter where it looks like a carnivorous insect waiting for unsuspecting prey.
“Come on. I’m a better wing woman than that.”
“Thank the tiny baby Jesus for that.”
The stuff riding the top of my head looks like an electrocuted animal. I unwrap the blanket and find I’m still wearing the strapless bra from last night along with the matching black bikini underpants. A sleep crease dissects my chest like a healed wound.
Faith passes me a tube of deep hair conditioner and a wide-tooth comb. “Umm. I think you’ll need this.”
“Only one tube?” The joke I make sounds weak, even to my ears. Untangling the snarls will hurt and I’m not looking forward to it. Still, well deserved. What the heck was I thinking? I sigh.
Faith’s eyes scrunch together in sympathy. “Look, I don’t mean to rush you, but get your ass in the shower. It’s almost your turn with Brad, the hair and makeup guy.”
“Okay, okay.” I huff.
She sets a huge, fluffy towel next to the shower. “You’ve got maybe ten minutes to clean up.”
“Sure, Mom.” I’m compelled to tease her.
First things first. I brush my teeth, then floss, and use the entire travel-size bottle of mouthwash I packed to rid myself of dragon breath. Once I’m in the shower—the hot water feels glorious—I work a generous glob of conditioner into my hair and painstakingly comb it through to detangle the mess. I only drop three f-bombs during the process. Frankly, it could have been worse.
The pills work their magic, and my headache backs way off. I almost feel human again. I quickly shave my legs while I rinse shampoo out of my hair. Because tick tock, I have to get in that chair and give the guy a chance to make me presentable again. Despite my hangover, I’m looking forward to the wedding. It’s New Year’s Eve. It’s a day for possibilities.
The bathroom is sleek and modern with both a glass-walled shower and a large, sunken tub. It’s at least twice as big as my bedroom at home. First drying my body with the huge towel, I then wrap it around my head to soak up the wet.
There’s a knock at the door before Faith opens it a crack to pass me the chenille robe I received as a bachelorette/wedding helper gift last night before booze robbed my memories. “Thanks. I absolutely adore this robe.”
“I know, right? They’re gorgeous. Brad’s cleaning his brushes and will be ready for you in two minutes.”
“I’m almost done,” I assure Faith.
My robe is a mint green with pink and yellow flowers. It’s a vintage style and handmade by one of the women who lives in same retirement complex as the bride and groom. Since the wedding is a strictly no-gift affair, Norma, the bride’s friend, decided to make these robes for the women in the wedding party and helpers to mark the occasion.
Brad is a theater major at Fortis and works as a makeup and hair artist on the side for extra cash. He’s a talker, but he concentrates on blowing out my hair, which gives me time to contemplate my life choices and my colossal mistake: drinking with Agnes.
She reminds me of Granny Kay who also had a hollow leg for liquor. Agnes’s sass made me miss my grandmother hard last night. Maybe that’s why I issued the drinking challenge.
Faith sets a glass of ice water down on the mirrored dresser in front of me. “Feeling any better?” she asks, pitching her voice over the sound of the hair dryer.
“Yes, especially after I brushed my teeth.”
Phoebe, her hair styled into a complicated braided chignon that’s both stunning and blatantly feminine, joins us. “You left your phone at the manse last night. The guys are swinging by there on their way over here to pick it up for you.”
Damn. I can’t believe I was so careless. “Thank you.”
She rubs my shoulder. “That’s what friends are for, Kirsty.”
The guys will drive all the way out to the mansion. My heart rate speeds up at the thought of Everest. My brain cues up the last image from my dirty dream. Oh, God. Eighteen inches taller than me, shredded—and underwear-melting gorgeous—he exudes the kind of confidence that shoots his particular level of sexy into the stratosphere.
Available now. No waiting.
Talk about a dangerous thought. Stop. Sure, every time he walks into a room my hormones purr—filthy fantasies aside—I have no intention of climbing Mount Everest. I’d probably have to hire a Sherpa and all. Even though my body begs me to reconsider. I’m not interested in being his rebound or having Everest fill the same spot for me.
I need to stay focused on school. Period. The end.
There’s a knock at the door. Faith answers, and TJ, Caleb, and finally Everest, step into the room, filling the space with their sheer size and presence. They each have something in hand.
“Good morning, ladies,” TJ says walking to the small table. “We have food and drink courtesy of the groom.”
Phoebe crosses the room to TJ and pecks his cheek. “Good morning. Mmm. You smell good.”
“Must be the croissants.” He uses his index finger to tilt Phoebe’s chin and says in a low voice, “You’re so beautiful you stop my heart.”
Caleb bends down to kiss Faith. “Hey, gorgeous. Your hair is a work of art.”
Brad’s smile blooms.
Everest glances around the room, as he makes his way to the table with a huge platter of fruit. “The beauty level in this room is off the charts.”
He’s wearing charcoal-gray joggers—no zipper—and a black, fitted, athletic long-sleeve shirt with Gladiators screen-printed in bold yellow across his glorious pecs. His chest looks like a freaking sculpture.
My core heat rises about five degrees and I’m acutely aware I’m not wearing anything under this robe. Everest reaches into his pocket, which makes the waistband of his sweats slide lower to reveal the bottom half of a mouthwatering oblique.
I shift in my seat. Down, girl.
Brad’s quick intake of breath makes me grin. Right there with you, buddy.
Everest passes me my phone. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Our fingers touch and my pulse rate scrambles. “Thanks so much for driving all the way back to the manse to get this for me.”
“Not a problem.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “But, the battery is dead. Is there somewhere I can plug it in for you?”
I make the mistake of meeting his navy-blue gaze. The color reminds me of the deepest part of the ocean. I feel tethered in place. Incapable of answering his simple question. What the hell is wrong with me?
He’s potent. Dirty-dream potent. Damn.
Faith walks over to us and sets a blue sports drink in front me. “I’ll take care of it.”
She glances at me, takes one look at my face, and her eyes sharpen with interest.
Crap.My bestie knows me inside and out. She correctly interpreted my expression.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Everest asks the room at large, but he’s staring right at me.
I can think of a few filthy things.
Phoebe says, “We’re all set. Thanks for delivering breakfast.”
When Brad fans himself, I realize we’re still on the same page. This time I duck my head to hide my grin and to break the spell Everest cast over me.
“What breaks yet never falls, and falls yet never breaks?” Everest asks.
“Day and night. See you all later.”
Once the door closes behind them Brad sighs. “They’re like a massive wall of heat.”
“Amen,” I say under my breath.
Brad hears me and snickers before turning the hair dryer back on.
Phoebe places a small plate holding a croissant and three large strawberries beside the sports drink. “Eat, Kirsty. It’ll help you all the way back,” she soothes while her violet eyes shine with sympathy.
She glances at her watch. “I’ve got to get dressed.”
I reach for the plate of food Phoebe left for me. Tearing off pieces of croissant, I stuff them in my mouth methodically. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. Follow with gulps from the sports drink. Phoebe’s right. I need to put last night behind me and feel one hundred percent myself again.
My reaction to Everest was simply a moment of hangover-induced haze. I mean, it’s the first time I’ve had a sex dream about him. Who wouldn’t drool? Brad drooled. I happened to do it in solidarity. That’s all.
Placing the plate back on the dresser, I zone out, eyes closed as Brad finishes drying my hair. I have thick hair, so it takes forever to fully dry.
Brad passes me single-use eyedrops. “This product will eradicate the demon red and make your eyes shine.”
“Thanks,” I say breaking off the top and adding a few drops to each eye. It stings at first, but in about twenty seconds my eyes are a bright white. I’m grateful.
“Wow. What is this stuff?”
“It’s a liquid miracle worker.”
“Totally,” I agree.
I happen to glance toward the bedroom area as Phoebe steps into the room. Her dress mostly on, she’s holding the fabric against her chest to keep it from sliding down.
“Can you help me with the zipper?” she asks Faith.
Phoebe’s dress is a floor-length satin in a deep taupe. She’s five ten, so the two-inch skinny heels boost her to an even six feet. The form-fitting style clings to her curves while the material shimmers to pool at her feet.
She looks amazing.
Brad turns off the hair dryer. “Holy shit, Phoebe. Gorgeous dress. Red-carpet worthy.”
Faith murmurs, “The eyeshadow is a perfect complement. Her eyes look purple.” She nods at Brad.
“Thanks. Brad, I love the makeup and hairstyle.” She walks to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. “I can’t wait to see TJ in a tux.” She fans herself.
I conjure an image of Everest in a tux and recall the way his mouth curved when he handed me my phone. The room feels way too hot again. Damn hair dryer.
The bride crosses into the room, wearing the chenille robe made for her in white with pale yellow flowers. “Oh,” she exclaims dabbing a tissue at the corners of her eyes. “Phoebe, you’re impossibly beautiful.”
“You have to say that, Grams.” Phoebe’s smile beams. “I can’t wait until Gavin takes his first look at you.”
Grams, as we were all invited to call her, flutters her hands in front of her chest. “I can’t believe how nervous I am. You’d think I was your age instead of mine.”
Grams steps over to me. Her hair is down and styled in soft waves that brush the collar of her robe. Her makeup is subtle, but her skin is luminous. “How are you feeling, love?”
Her genuine concern warms me. I touch her hand. “Much better. I want to apologize to you for overdoing it. I hope I didn’t ruin the evening.”
“Nonsense.” She laughs. “Sweetheart, no apologies necessary. Besides, Agnes is incorrigible.” Dropping her voice, she confides, “She drinks like a fish.” Grams pats my shoulder. “You kept us in stitches. We all had the best time. That handsome dancer sure was sweet on you. Has he called you yet?”
My heart knocks against my ribs in three sharp taps. “Who?”
Agnes wanders back into the room—her robe is a pretty sky blue with pink flowers—champagne glass in hand. “Matiu. The one dressed like a fireman. You kept cracking jokes about the length of his hose.”
My stomach wobbles and my face flames. Shit. My memory clears. The dancers Agnes hired for last night’s entertainment. Super sexy Matiu. About four years older than me and by far the youngest member of the group.
Dark hair, a man bun, and liquid dark brown eyes. Warm brown skin, and a gorgeous Maori tattoo beginning on his right shoulder and running the length of his arm down to his wrist. I remember a long conversation with him, but not specifically what we talked about. He had mentioned he and his family moved here from New Zealand when he was a toddler.
Grams says, “He knew you were joking about his equipment. Well, mostly.” Her grin spreads. “Though I’m sure he secretly hoped you weren’t joking about him ‘putting out your raging fire.’” She pats my knee.
Brad covers his snort with a cough.
The blood drains from my face. I immediately glance at Faith.
She winces. “I’m pretty sure he knew you were kidding.”
Oh. My. God. “Why didn’t you stop me?” I kind of wail the last vowel. I’m shocked at myself. I’m a private person. I don’t word-vomit.
“I tried,” she pleads with me. “You clung to Matiu like a koala hugs a tree—or the New Zealand equivalent. I couldn’t pry your fingers off his biceps. The only thing I could do was sit with you both to make sure he behaved.”
I turned into a clinger? I’m freaking horrified. It’s like they’re talking about someone else. Not me. I swallow back uneasiness. “Okay, let’s hear it. What else did I do?”
Faith crosses the room to stand beside me. “Look, what happened wasn’t your fault.”
I close my eyes. “Oh, God.”
“Daniel was out of line. You’d had a few, but you weren’t drunk yet. So, you called your ex.”
“What?” Crap. Shit. Fuuuuuuuck!
Brad gets busy putting my hair up in a large claw clip, pretending like he isn’t fascinated.
I am screwed.
I. Called. Daniel.I have no memory of this. I’m never drinking again.
After we broke up, Collin wasn’t happy with me when I told him Daniel wouldn’t visit anymore. It’s kind of lowering to admit, but the turd probably liked Daniel more than I did.
One of the last clear thoughts I have from last night was Daniel’s KickBack post. I was hurt and angry, but not enough to call him. What possessed me to drunk-dial Daniel? “What did I say to him?”
“You used FaceTime to call him after he left you a voicemail.”
Okay, that doesn’t sound awful. “Embarrassing, sure. But not outrageous, right?”
Agnes makes a noise deep in her throat that sounds suspiciously like swallowed laughter and does not bode well.
Faith’s face-scrunch confirms my new sense of doom. “You called him from Matiu’s lap.”
My hands grow cold, but the skin on my face ratchets to scorch level. I’m not the kind of person who does this kind of thing. Am I?
Agnes raises her champagne glass. “Well done. The little shitweasel deserved it after his KickBack post.”
Panic crawls up my spine. It was an asshole move, him taking our breakup to social media. His rescue hashtag feels like being stabbed in the neck with a fork. I called him for a ride after I lost my debit card and had to cancel it. Since it was linked to my Rides account, I was stuck. It happened once. He made it sound like he’s some kind of hero who was forced to routinely “rescue” me.
Jerk.
I could have called Dad, but I called Daniel. I got one low grade on a test in Biochem. A seventy-percent grade, still passing, but I was sad about it. His post claims I won’t graduate. Screw him. My blood pressure spikes.
Brad tsks. “Sounds like your ex has anger management issues.”
“Your rebuttal post was on point.” Phoebe hands her phone to me. It’s a screenshot of a pic from last night. Matiu is wearing his fireman’s outfit. Open jacket, revealing he’s shirtless. Just a hint of the tat.
He’s chaotically hot.
Not as hot as Everest, but a shiver works its way down my spine anyway.
It looks like I’m dragging Matiu three feet behind me by his prop hose, which is wrapped suggestively around his torso and drapes over my shoulder and down the center of my chest. My hands are wrapped around the nozzle. It’s super sexy in a girl-in-charge way.
I still have both strips of eyelashes on—thank goodness—and I don’t look like a train wreck. I’m kind of rocking a dominatrix vibe in my short black skirt and nearly six-inch pewter heels. My caption reads:
@DanielSlaysNewford #NoRescueRequired #BeCoolFortisRules
“Okay, but why did I FaceTime him, too?” It’s off. It’s not something I’d do.
“In his voicemail after you posted this pic to KickBack Daniel called you a cheating whore.”
A pang hits deep in my chest. Someone I used to spend time with thinks I’m a slut. “I see,” I manage to whisper.
Faith crouches in front of me to make eye contact. “He’s wrong on so many levels. You could have fileted him in your clapback post, but you didn’t. He wants a girlfriend without a mind of her own. That’s not you. You’re strong and independent.”
Grams says, “Listen, sweetheart. Bullies don’t deserve one moment of regret.” She leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “Please don’t give him the satisfaction of allowing his barb to imbed itself in a sensitive spot.”
I nod.
“I refuse to allow you to feel anything but joy on my wedding day.” She passes me my plate with the half-eaten croissant and fat strawberries. “Eat. Recharge. Let Brad do your makeup. But most of all forget that boy.”
“You didn’t ask for my advice, but I’ll give it to you anyway. Some men—like some farts—can’t be fully trusted,” Agnes chimes in. “Choose wisely. Matiu or that hottie Everest get my vote.”
I choke on the sip of sports drink, dribbling wet down my chin.
Everest is the one who makes my hormones pay attention. Well, maybe Matiu did too, and I’m just now recalling the sizzle. Stop, I admonish myself. I can’t start anything with anyone because I leave in two days.
After I wipe my chin, Brad works on my makeup. He compares a color palette of eye shadow to my dress. I bought a copper-colored floor-length dress that was seventy-five percent off the original price. Still on the expensive side. I found cute platforms that were cheap, but don’t look cheap, to go with the dress.
Brad quickly evens out my skin using a variety of products to cover the blotches caused by post-alcohol indulgence. He applies a light copper color on my lid and a deeper bronze for the crease. The eyeliner he used was a toasted brown color. He selects brown lashes and applies them with an expertise I envy. He chooses a light shade of raspberry for the lip stain and follows it with a light gloss.
He spends about thirty minutes on my makeup. I’m wearing a lot of product, but I don’t look overdone. I love it because I don’t normally wear a lot of makeup. Brows, liner, lashes, and lip gloss are my usual go-to fix when I have time and feel inclined.
Brad steps back from the chair I’m sitting in and tilts his head to the side. “I’m thinking about a trio of rope braids. I’ll start on your left side, working toward your opposite shoulder. The bun will sit on your neck just behind your right ear.”
“Sounds fabulous.” It also sounds like I don’t have to do a damn thing to make myself presentable for the black-tie wedding complete with balloon drop once the clock strikes twelve.
Faith steps back into the room wearing her dress. The blush color looks softly pink. It’s an off-the-shoulder, A-line style that fits her figure perfectly.
Once my phone is charged, I’ll have to see whether Matiu reached out. I owe him an apology. I probably ogled the hell out of him, and I feel bad for my behavior.
My anxiety spikes. I need to scroll through my camera roll. I’m sure there are pictures of the evening to help me piece together what else may have happened during my extreme fuzziness.
I’m also going to block Daniel from my KickBack and my contact lists. Grams and Agnes are right. I gave my trust to Daniel, who didn’t earn or deserve it. I need to pay attention from now on. Even casual relationships aren’t worth the hassle.