Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)
Bide: Chapter 25

I don’t know how I ended up here.

I tried to avoid them, I really did. I made it two whole days without so much as a glimpse of my old friends. But one trip to my favorite coffee shop and I got cornered, and subsequently dragged out for the night.

A club is the last place I want to be. I would much rather be curled up on my mom’s lumpy couch gorging on leftovers, maybe with a movie in the background and Jackson on FaceTime.

But either I’m weak or Eva and Bea are exceptionally manipulative because here I am, shotting tequila in a tight dress after providing entirely too small of an argument.

To add fuel to fire, Owen’s here. I’ve kept my distance all night, subtly shimmying away when he dances over or excusing myself to get a drink or darting to the bathroom. I know I can’t avoid him forever, and that comes to fruition when we pile into a booth at the back of the club and Owen makes sure to snag a spot beside me.

Dread settles in my stomach as he slinks an arm around my shoulders. “You ignored my texts.”

I pointedly shrug him off. “You didn’t take the hint.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mouth downturned in an exaggerated hurt expression. “Watch the claws, Lu. What did I do?”

When I mentally scramble for an excuse as to why I’ve done a complete one-eighty and given him the cold shoulder, all I come up with is the truth. Fiddling with the straw of my drink, I cast a nervous glance in the girls’ direction. They’re not paying us any attention, too caught up in squawking about the latest gossip, but I drop my voice and scoot closer to Owen as a precaution. “I’m seeing someone.”

He blinks. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“You,” he repeats slowly, “are seeing someone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Monogamously.”

A spark of irritation straightens my spine. “Yes, asshole.”

“Sorry.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Just never thought I’d see the day Luna Evans got a boyfriend.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

It’s a testament to their ability to sniff out gossip, how Eva and Bea manage to hear the one thing I’d rather they didn’t in a rowdy, noisy club. I cringe at their gaping expressions, their jaws practically on the floor. “No, I don’t.”

“You just said you were seeing someone.”

“I am. But he’s not my boyfriend.”

Eva crooks a snooty brow. “But he’s getting all the benefits.” I shrug, because how the fuck else do I respond to that? The girls exchange glances before erupting into giggles. “Oh, sweetie. Luna’s been Luna’d.”

My stomach twists in a knot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All that sleeping around and messing with boys’ heads was going to catch up with you eventually,” Bea explains as casually as if she were talking about the weather, as if what she’s saying makes perfect sense, as if she didn’t just essentially call me a manipulative slut. “It’s, like, karma or something.”

No, I feel like correcting her. This is my karma. Having to suffer in your drab presence.

Before I can vocalize that, though, Owen butts in. Sporting his peacemaker tone, he shoots me pleading glances, silently begging me to let their snide comments go. “Where is he this weekend?”

I sigh and oblige, if only because denying Bea a reaction is oh-so-satisfying. “He’s home. His family’s got a ranch up near Sequoia.”

One of the girls, I’m not even sure who, snickers. “He’s probably rolling around in a barn right now with his childhood sweetheart.”

Their laughter rings in my ears as I slump in my seat, fists clenched on my lap. Owen’s frown sears the side of my face, his shoulder bumping mine gently. “Guys, come on. Enough.”

“We’re just kidding,” Eva protests with a pout. She rolls her eyes, letting out an indignant huff before pasting on a fake smile. “So, you like him?”

“Of course she likes him,” Bea jumps in before I can get a word out. “She turned down Owen.”

“Wait until she has a few more shots, she’ll change her mind.”

They talk like I’m not even here, dig after dig after dig, ranging from how Jackson’s cheating on me to how I’ll eventually cheat on him. When they start bitterly pondering how Jackson managed to ‘break the Ice Queen,’ I down my drink and stand. “I’m gonna go.”

A chorus of whines break out. “We’re joking! God, when did you get so sensitive?”

Gathering my bag and jacket, I leave without so much as a backward glance. As I stomp through the club, my annoyance grows. I’m irritated, less so with what they were saying, more so with the fact that I let them say it. I sat and took it like a little bitch when I should’ve chucked a drink in their faces.

The sound of my name being called cuts through the ruckus of the club, and I glance over my shoulder to replace Owen pushing through the crowd towards me. When he reaches me, his hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes, eyes soft with sympathy. “You okay?”

I nod, already pulling out my phone with the intention of calling a cab to get the hell out of here, bypassing the unopened messages from Jackson because fuck me, those girls got in my head something good.

Owen’s hand covers the screen. “Wanna go somewhere?” When I hit him an ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ look, he clarifies, “I’m not hitting on you. I just don’t wanna go home yet. Empty house blues.”

Another one of the reasons me and Owen’s arrangement has always worked so well, how we always maintained a friendship; we never have liked being alone.

Still, I hesitate.

Sensing my trepidation, Owen nudges me gently. “We’ve been friends longer than we’ve been fucking, Lu. I promise I won’t try anything.”

The hopeful look in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings, and I feel my willpower wilt. “Fine. One drink.”

I should’ve known better.

God, when will I ever learn that one drink is never really just one drink?

One vodka cranberry turns into two, and that turns into three, and then a two-for-one deal on cocktails enters the mix so, naturally, I have a couple of those. I’m not sure when the shots start, and I sure as fuck have no clue how many I consume. I only remember them burning something fierce on the way down.

And on the way back up.

Owen isn’t far behind me on the drunk scale, matching me drink for drink like the competitive son of a bitch he is. We egg each other on, try to one-up each other, and it’s fun, for a while. We’re having fun. Good ol’ friendly fun.

Until we aren’t.

I forgot that the main flaw in Owen and I drinking together isn’t that we might accidentally fall into bed together; it’s that we never know when to shut up.

Which is how, less than two hours after I committed to one, singular, innocent drink, I’m hunched in a rickety plastic chair in the emergency room waiting for Owen to get his possibly-broken hand x-rayed.

It was my fault, really. I was the one who spent twenty minutes vomiting up my fucking soul before my equally plastered friend dragged me out of a club bathroom. Unfortunately, I think I could consume all the alcohol in the world and still, the mouthy bitch in me wouldn’t shut up; she was certainly alive when some dickhead tried to steal our cab.

The specifics are a little blurry but I think the phrases ‘cock-sucker‘ and ‘shrimp dick little bitch‘ might have been used. Whatever I said, it was enough to catch the guy’s attention. It all kicked off after that, and before I knew it, I was the one helping Owen into a taxi while he cradled his poor, deformed hand.

Even after all that, I’m still too drunk. My head is spinning, my stomach is rolling, and I swear I can feel the alcohol burning a hole in my liver. Even that antiseptic hospital smell can’t cover up the stench of vodka seeping from my pores.

“One drink,” I mutter as I slump over in my seat, shaking my head at my own naivety. “Dipshit.”

“Talking to yourself, sweetheart?”

Oh, do I hate the hope that flutters in my chest before I recognize Owen’s voice.

“Don’t call me that,” I warn the man ambling toward me, looking just as decrepit and drained as I feel. I cringe at the cast encasing his hand. “Broken?” His sullen nod evokes a wave of guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

His not-bandaged hand socks me gently on the shoulder. “Shut up. You didn’t break my hand.”

I started the fight though, didn’t I? Could’ve kept my fat mouth shut and just let the little bastard take our taxi. But nope. Drunk Luna is just as foolish as Sober Luna. I’m too tired to argue though, so with a resigned sigh, I shakily get to my feet.

Immediately, I regret it. Letting out a groan, one hand goes to my throbbing forehead while the other settles on my churning stomach.

Concern lighting up his face for the second time tonight, Eoin cups my elbow, steadying me. “You okay?”

He is literally broken yet he’s asking if I’m okay. I’d laugh if I didn’t think it would make me projectile vomit. All I manage is a grunted yes. “Just dizzy.”

“You don’t look so good.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Lu, you’re kinda green.”

“I’m fine,” I insist even as I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “I just need to sleep.”

And fresh air. Fresh air and sleep. And probably another strategic vomit.

On legs that feel like jelly, I take a couple of steps towards the emergency room doors. With each one, my body becomes heavier and heavier until it feels like I’m trudging through mud.

I’m almost outside when my vision blurs and my ears start ringing.

I think someone says my name but I’m not sure. All I know is my legs give out completely, my knees hit the floor with a dull, painful thud, and someone hooks their arms underneath my armpits before the rest of my body follows.

The last thing I think of before my world goes black?

The unopened texts from Jackson sitting in my inbox.