He disentangled in record speed, took the stairs two at a time, and made it to his bathroom with seconds to spare before hurling some truly unholy curses at Shaun, Tyler, Josh, and their motherfucking circle of life.
Chapter Eleven
“Don’t Come Around Here No More.”
A whistled version of the Tom Petty classic wafted to West’s ears and for one groggy moment transported him to the barracks at Great Lakes, where waking to a random song was the norm rather than the exception. Then the whistling switched to a hum—a female hum—and parts of him woke up faster than his disoriented brain. Eventually the fog from last night’s bender burned off enough for him to realize he was crashed out on his bed, less hung-over than he deserved to be, with the floor vent tuned to K-ROXY.
How had he gotten here? Last thing he remembered was… Fuuuuck. He groaned, rolled onto his back, and flung an arm over his eyes. He’d spent a miserable chunk of last night relieving his stomach of an overabundance of bourbon. Impressions flashed through his mind like a badly edited film. The cool comfort of a wet washcloth pressed to the back of his neck, gentle hands rubbing his shoulders, the minty taste of toothpaste scrubbing the dregs of a whiskey-barrel from his mouth. More minor details followed—two painkillers downed with a long guzzle of water straight from the tap, a slim arm around his waist, guiding him to bed.
He let his arm drop to the pillow and cautiously opened his eyes. Pale light pried around the edges of the dark blue curtains covering the two tall windows flanking the bed. Not bright enough to make him blink, but enough to see someone had left a bottle of Gatorade and two more painkillers on his nightstand. The blissfully cool air told him someone had cranked up the AC as well. No doubt the same someone who had removed his clothes. He lifted the sheet and squinted. All his clothes.
Roxy.
The realization provoked another groan. He managed to suppress it this time, but it was no less heartfelt although it stemmed from wounded pride rather than the aftereffects of too much Kentucky Gold. He opened the Gatorade and gulped down half the bottle along with the ibuprofen. He was grateful to Roxy—sincerely—because taking care of her trashed housemate went above and beyond the call of neighborliness. Though he appreciated waking up in his bed with the ghost of a hangover instead of on his bathroom floor, praying for death, he hated being in a position where anyone had to take care of him. He protected. He served. Not vice versa.
After returning the Gatorade to the nightstand, he settled back against his pillow and stared at the ceiling. That she’d gotten an eyeful of him at such a pathetic moment trapped him in a thorny tangle of guilt and embarrassment. And yeah, it was all the more pathetic given he’d hounded her into the laundry room with the alcohol-impaired intention of convincing her she had better options than going out for ice cream with Cooper. Tough choice, right? Ice cream with an eager, sober, irritatingly sincere firefighter, or an insulting encounter with a cynical cop who couldn’t hold his liquor? What a coin toss. Hopefully once he apologized for being a monumental asshole, and thanked her for tending to him, he’d be able to—
His bedroom door swung opened with the squeak of a hinge. Roxy tiptoed in holding a small stack of folded laundry and made for the dresser along the wall opposite his bed. With her back to him, she leaned over to open a drawer. His mouth went dry.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
She jumped like a cat at his question and dropped the clothes. He immediately felt like a jerk for startling her.
“One of your T-shirts,” she replied before disappearing below the foot of his bed. Her disembodied voice continued, “I tossed your clothes from last night into the wash, along with a few other things. This came out of the dryer so soft and warm I couldn’t resist borrowing it. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself,” he said to empty space. The shirt wasn’t what he’d been questioning, more her lack of anything in the way of pants.
Her head reappeared. She grabbed hold of the bed knob closest to her, and the sight of her fingers wrapped around the timeworn brass sent his imagination down an X-rated detour. Roxy, holding onto the uppermost rung of the headboard with both hands while he thrust into her hard enough to rattle the whole frame to pieces. He added another X to the detour rating when she pulled herself to her feet and faced him. The clothes she’d dropped were once again a tidy stack, but they didn’t block the sight of his shirt draped over full breasts crowned by high, tight nipples. His mouth itched to taste…to lick one hard point, feel it drag slowly from the center of his tongue to the tip. Her lips parted, and he practically heard her say…
“How’re you feeling this morning?”
He settled back and raised a knee so the sheet would hide the evidence of exactly how he was feeling at this moment. He felt like stripping his shirt off her and finding out if her tits were as sensitive to touch as they were to temperature. Could she come just from light, grazing kisses, or did she prefer to be eaten alive? “Better. You don’t have to do my laundry.”
“I was doing a load anyway, so…” She shrugged and resumed putting his clothes in the dresser.
Leaning into his
