Vanished: A Bad Boy Second Chance Romance (7 page)

              I barely make it to the toilet before it’s all coming up again. I grip the cold porcelain and feel Joey’s hands brush the hair from my face, holding it behind my head.

              This is like my worst nightmare.

              There’s a war being waged inside me, with feelings of anger, lust, and embarrassment all fighting for position, each one being overthrown by another the moment they come to power. Right now it’s embarrassment that’s winning out, but as I feel his rough hands against the back of my neck, lust and love take over once again.

              Love. How stupid am I being? I haven’t seen him in six years. I can’t love him. I never had a chance to love him before now. We never even went out for any amount of time. There’s no way I should love him, especially after what he did to me.

              My stomach seems to have calmed. I’m safe for the moment, and I get my feet under me and stand. Ducking my head to avoid his gaze, I shuffle to the sink and wash the acid taste of sick out of my mouth, then grab the bottle of mouthwash. I immediately take a shot of it, rinse it around and spit. I take another shot, and swallow this one, feeling the burn as it coats my throat.             

              “Are you, uh, supposed to drink that?”

              I give him the stink eye and use another swig to rinse my mouth out. The last thing I need to be doing is breathing puke breath all over Joey.

              “You should probably change that shirt too,” I hear him say. Looking down at my sleeve, I realized it’s got vomit on it. This is so surreal, like some sort of worst case scenario that’s blown into my life on the storm that is Joey. I exhale all the breath from my lungs and strip out of my shirt, tossing it aside.

              So what if I only have a bra on? Let him look. Let him see what he’s been missing out on all these years. Just to rub the point home, as I pass him on the way to my room, I give him the sultriest bitch-face sexy look I can muster. I don’t know what I expected, but he just grins at me. Of course he does.

              I hear the tub turn on as I step into the hall. Washing the puke off his shoes, I guess. I lean forward, resting my head on the wall, trying to calm my mind. This is not how my reunion with Joey was supposed to go. He must be so repulsed by me. He came back expecting to find the same girl he’d left six years ago, and instead he found some drunken mess that probably just ruined his shoes. When he’s done in the bathroom, he’s going to grab his sweatshirt and go, leaving me again, and this time for good.

              His sweatshirt.

              I turn and see it lying on the couch and quickly rush over to it and put it on. I need a shirt, and if I’m wearing his sweatshirt he can’t leave. Right? Sounds like a sound plan to me. I need answers, and he can’t go until I get them.

              I get it zipped up and turn back to the bathroom, but my sock slips on the floor and I stumble, knocking my shin on the coffee table and tumbling to the floor. The pain floods through my leg, and it’s just what I needed to push me over the edge. Like an idiot, I start bawling my brains out.

              I hear Joey come out of the bathroom, his footsteps coming toward me and stopping just in front of me. I must look ridiculous. Classic drunk girl. Both of his arms slip around my waist and he picks me up like I weigh nothing. The feel of his strong arms against me is almost too much to bear. I could have never imagined the man Joey would grow into.

              Holding me tightly, effortlessly, he takes me into my bedroom and sets me gently on my bed. I groan and settle in, feeling the soft thick pillow against my cheek. This is just what I needed. The room is still spinning, and I close my eyes, feeling Joey tuck me in with care.

              Joey.

              Here. In my bedroom.

              And I’m a hot drunk mess that he has to take care of. This is
not
what should be going on in here. I manage to open my eyes for a second and look up at him, dreading his expression. But when I see him, all I see is care and concern. After all this time, as embarrassed as I am, I still feel a strange comfort in his presence. This isn’t me, and he knows that. Somehow I understand that I won’t have to explain this to him tomorrow.

              My bed is so soft, and my head sinks into the pillow. My breathing slows. My stomach is finally calming down. I pull the blankets up to my chin, and the last thing I see before I close my eyes, is Joey’s face, smiling down at me.

             
He’s so handsome,
I think as I slip into sleep.

              I wake to the smell of…bacon?

              I sit up quickly and instantly slump back down, clutching my head as a wave of nausea sweeps over me like the angel of death. Talk about the mother of all hang overs. Like I said, I rarely ever drink, and as a result, I’m a total lightweight. But I am able to swing my legs out of bed, the events of last night replaying through my mind like a film with half the scenes cut out, and the rest grainy and distorted.

              The floor feels cold against my bare feet, but the rest of my body is practically overheating.

              I realize I’m still wearing Joey’s sweatshirt. He must have left without it. What a night for him. I can’t even imagine it from his perspective. He sees me, gets into a fight, then comes over and has to deal with me throwing up all over him, then stealing his clothes.

              But it serves him right!
I think, anger swarming over me again as the sleep fades from my mind. He was gone for six years! What’s he think he’s going to get? A nice happy warm welcome when he shows up at my door? He’s just going to rush up to my porch like something out of a Nicholas Sparks novel and I’m just going to welcome him in with open arms, kiss him passionately, and let him take me on the couch?

              Fat chance.

              Just thinking about last night is getting my blood pressure up. The anger at Joey mixing with my total embarrassment has my anxiety in high gear and I haven’t even left my bedroom.

              I’m getting even more riled up as I step into the hall, lazily scratching my scalp with a fingertip. The floor is freezing, and I step quickly into the living room, seeking shelter on the rug. My head is throbbing, and I slump down onto the couch and cradle it in both hands.

              This is
his
fault!

              If he had just stayed away, none of this would have happened. I would have gone to work, made a few bucks, and come home. But no. Joey has to show up, causing me to freak out, causing me to drink, then leave again, causing me to drink
more
, and ending up with a disaster night fit for the history books.

              I actually probably would have still gotten drunk, but I wouldn’t have thrown up all over him. That’s what really has me feeling bad about last night. Anger I’m pretty good at getting over—but embarrassment?

              “Morning!”

              I jump out of skin and leap to my feet, spinning quickly around at the sound of the voice.

              Joey is standing in my kitchen, making breakfast. I guess that explains the smell of bacon.

              “Jesus Christ!” I yelp, clapping a hand over my mouth. My neighbors are pains in the ass, and I’m probably already going to get an angry letter from them about last night’s noise. “Joey! What are you doing?!”

              “Making breakfast for you,” he says, as though I asked him what the weather forecast was. He turns back to the stove, and I stand there for a minute, frozen at the absurdity of the situation.

              “Did you…sleep here?” I ask hesitantly.

              “I crashed on the couch,” he says calmly. “You need a new one. That one’s terrible.”

              “You
slept
here?! Why?!” Slowly I pace forward. I see he’s made scrambled eggs as well. I can’t remember the last time I actually made myself a good breakfast.

              “You were in bad shape last night,” he says, dumping some eggs out of the pan onto one of the plates. Two slices of toast pop up in the toaster. He grabs them and two pieces of bacon.

              “Bacon? I don’t think so.” I say. My stomach is nowhere near one hundred percent, and I don’t want a repeat of the catastrophe of last night.

              “Okay,” he says, carelessly tossing a piece in his mouth and chewing away. “I like bacon.”

              He sets the plate on the table and goes to the fridge, pulls out a carton of orange juice, and pours me a glass. Hesitantly, I step into the kitchen and sink down into one of the fabric-covered chairs I found at the thrift store. It creaks as I get comfortable. Joey brings the glass over and takes a seat in front of me. His chair sounds like it’s going to crack under his weight. He’s a bit bigger than I am, after all. I suddenly feel self-conscious about the state of my place. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a …stranger over.

              Just looking at him sitting in front of me, brings memories flooding back to me. Sitting in art class, working on my painting when he came over to me. Finding the drawing of me in the trash can. All those times he stood staring at me from across the hall, and now here he is doing the same thing, only across the table from me.

              The effect he has on me is impossible to truly describe. My apartment suddenly feels like
his
apartment simply by him being here, and adding to the fact that he’s just made me breakfast, I suddenly feel like a visitor. Somehow it’s comforting. I’m used to doing everything for myself. It started when dad left, and only continued after high school. With Joey around, somehow all the pressure has been lifted off of me, and I’m comfortable just letting him be in charge.

              But at the same time, I’m still seething with rage, and it’s going to take a lot more than a couple scrambled eggs and toast to calm me down.

              “You trying to buy me off?” I ask him, chomping threateningly on a slice of toast. “You think breakfast is going to make up for six years of silence?”

              For the first time, I see a slight twinge of emotion cross over his face, like my words actually got to him. But it’s so brief, I wonder if it was actually even there. I’d had dreams of my life with Joey. I’d pursue my painting, and he’d encourage me. He would travel with me. We’d go to Paris, see the Eiffel Tower for
real
, and then he’d snatched it all away from me.

              “Your scrambled eggs are shit,” I lie, sticking my tongue out as I chew.

              “You think that’s going to gross me out after last night?”

              Touché.

              I look away, feeling embarrassed again.

              “This is so weird,” I say, more to myself than him. “You being here. Doesn’t feel…real.”

              “What’s weird is you not attacking me or something. I thought you were gonna hit me last night outside the bar.”

              “I was going to,” I say quickly, feeling suddenly defensive. I take a deep sip of orange juice, washing down the eggs, which are actually pretty good. “But Brad and Devon beat me to it.”

              He bursts into laughter so loud it startles me. “Those two idiots,” he says. “Some people never change.”

              “And you have?” I ask. He looks back at me, eyeing me for a moment like he’s trying to decide what to say. When he doesn’t speak, I continue.

              “I mean, you
look
different. Not as scrawny as you used to be. You still stare like an idiot though.” I shovel more eggs into my mouth and take another gulp of juice. Another dumb grin. As hard as I try, I can’t seem to get a rise out of him.

              “So what are you now, a chef?”

              He chuckles and shakes his head. “I uh…I make furniture.”

              “Furniture,” I say blankly. I don’t know what I expected really, but it definitely wasn’t that.

              “Yeah, I’ve got a shop over in Mount Carlyle.”

              I drop my fork, letting it clatter across my plate.

              “Mount. Carlyle.” I say purposefully. “The Mount Carlyle that’s twenty minutes away? That Mount Carlyle?”

              Joey just nods.

              “Seriously? You’re just going to nod?” I feel myself starting to lose control. All his kind gestures over the last twelve hours seem meaningless at this news. More than that, they seem…cruel, like he’s been being nice to me on purpose, for a reason, building me up to tell me where he’s been on this time, because he knows he has no excuse.

              “For how long?”

              After a long pause, “A while. Not too long.”

              “How wonderfully specific,” I spit back, picking up my plate and dumping what’s left of my meal straight in the trash. I toss the plate into the sink, the sound of it crashing down mirroring the emotions flooding through me right now.

              “So you’re not going to tell me why you left?” I say with my back to him. There’s a long pause. I don’t know if he’s trying to find the words or if he’s simply not going to tell me. My hands squeeze hard against the countertop, and I can just feel my blood pressure rising.

              Finally, I spin around to face him. Our eyes meet, and even though I’m completely raging, I feel that spark in my heart that I felt six years ago, when I realized I loved him. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to deny it, it’s still there.

              “Mia, I—“

              And then, by some cruel twist of fate, there’s a knock at the door. I frown and check out the window, and when I see who it is, I almost have a heart attack.

              “Shit! It’s Ian, my boyfriend! You have to hide!”

              He scoffs like I’ve just made the most absurd suggestion ever. “Oh, come on.”

              “Seriously, Joey! He can’t see you here! He’ll freak! He proposed to me last night!”

              “So…your
fiancé
then?”

              I freeze, then slowly turn to face him. A strange look comes over his face, one I can’t read. What is he thinking? But before I can get into it, another knock comes from the door.

              “Mia! Mia, you there? I’ve been texting you all morning.”

              “Shit!” I say, racing to my phone and checking it. He’s right. Fifteen missed texts and two calls. He must be worried.

              “Just a minute!” I shout, rushing over to Joey and pulling him from the chair. It’s like trying to lift a slab of steel, I’m just not strong enough. He groans, annoyed, but gets to his feet.

              “Just, get in the back or something!”

              “What is this, high school? Come on—“

              The front door opens behind me, and I hear Ian’s voice.

              “Mia, are you okay—“

              Busted.

              I turn and see his face, confused, but not freaking out. Ian is not quick to anger, and I know he’s waiting to hear my explanation.

              I search for the words, but none come.

              There’s no way to explain this.

              I can barely explain it to myself.

              I cough, trying to clear my throat, which has suddenly gone dry. Finally, Ian speaks.

              “What…what is this?”
              “It’s not what it looks like,” Joey says, but before he can finish, Ian holds up a hand and glares at him.

              “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my fiancé, okay?” He turns back to me, an intensity in his eyes as he leans forward. “Mia, what is this—?”

              “She’s not your fiancé,” Joey says quietly.

              That registers, and Ian’s composed face is overcome with an angry glare that he turns on Joey.

              “I’m sorry?”

              This is bad. If Ian gets angry enough, he
will
freak out and do something stupid, and after seeing what Joey did to Brad and Devon last night, I’m suddenly scared for him.

              “Okay, can we just all calm down please,” I say, but Ian is already pushing past me. Joey doesn’t move, not even pretending to be intimidated. He’s at least half a foot taller than Ian, with way more muscle, too, but Ian is very possessive over me, and he’s not thinking straight.

              “Ian, stop. Stop!”

              “What did you say to me?” Ian says, raising his voice. “Better yet,
who
the fuck are you, anyway, and what are you doing in my fiancé’s apartment?” Ian snaps and lashes out, swinging wildly at Joey.              

              “No!” I shout, trying to get between them. But Ian pushes past me and swings again. Joey ducks the punch lazily, and I brace myself for what’s about to come. But he doesn’t retaliate. He could lay Ian out in one punch, I’ve seen him do it, but he doesn’t. Ian keeps swinging, but Joey dodges all the punches and sidesteps behind the couch, putting it between them.

              “Ian! Stop! Stop it!”

              He swings again, but trips on the coffee table and crashes down to the floor. I take the opportunity to race over to Joey and grab him by the arms, pushing him toward the door. I have to get him out of here.

              “Go! Okay? Just go, please!”

              He sighs, as though he’s completely unfazed by this, and looks down at me as I twist the knob and push him out onto the porch. He looks more annoyed than anything as he steps outside.