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Probably about the time he kissed you.
Or maybe when he tied you to the bed and made you?—
I slam those thoughts down. They’re not needed or useful.
“Trust me. A margarita from here will fix you right up.”
“Trying to get me drunk, Mr. Whitlock?”
“Absolutely not. Carrying Kieran’s ass home last night was more than enough.”
My brow wrinkles as a server appears with two shots of tequila, a soda for Brax, and a huge margarita for me.
“You had to carry him home? Why? From where?” I ask once we’re left alone again.
Brax pushes a shot toward me.
“Drink. Take the edge off. Then, I’ll tell you.”
Hesitantly, I lift the glass.
I’m not a huge fan of shots, but what have I got to lose?
Together we lift them to our lips and swallow.
“Oh my god,” I complain as the alcohol burns down my throat. “So?” I demand.
“You need to start. I need to know what happened before I was called to rescue his ass.”
46
KIERAN
It’s safe to say that I’ve never experienced a hangover like I had this morning. Or more specifically, this afternoon, by the time I finally woke up.
I’ve been drinking since I was…thirteen, but I’ve always been good at knowing my limits. Plus, football has always been my main focus. Partying and getting drunk always came second to that. Can’t necessarily say the same about girls. But everyone has to have a vice, right?
But as much as I want to blame the alcohol for all the pain, I know it’s not completely responsible.
Today has been hell.
Everything has been hell since that morning I woke up knowing that Effie was no longer mine.
I slump lower on my couch as I continue feeling sorry for myself.
I’m too far gone to even care at this point.
I don’t mope. Generally, I’m not a sad person. The weeks that followed losing the playoff game don’t count; that was an anomaly.
Usually, I’m good at picking myself back up and getting on with shit.
But right now, getting on with my life is the last thing I want to do.
I hate that I can’t find anything within me to push myself forward, but it’s gone.
Everything has gone.
All the feelings I was smothering in St. Louis when Grams died so I could be there for Effie have risen to the surface, along with the frustration and anger over her hiding the fact she was home is dragging me under.