The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

My eyes heavily flickered open, and I felt as though a hammer was pounding repeatedly against my head. I began to twist my body over, ready to get up, when I realized that I was restricted. Something was clasped around my waist, and I couldn’t wiggle out. I turned my body around, and came face to face with an attractive male that I recognized.

       “Dylan,” I groaned.

       “Mmmmm,” he moaned, tightening his grasp around me.

       “Dylan!” I yelled, dizziness taking over my entire body.

       “Morning, Liz,” he whispered huskily into my ear.

       “Get off of me,” I ground out. Yet again, his grip tightened around my torso. I pulled my elbow back into his chest, causing him to release me in pain instantly.

       “Geez, Liz!” he complained.

       I carefully stood up, trying to ignore the fact that the room was completely spinning around in a circle. “What the fuck happened last night?”

       He got up from my bed, and stretched. I eyed him curiously, taking note he possessed abs. Nice abs. The only thing occupying his body was a pair of boxers. I was screwed. Literally.

       “We slept together.” I gaped in response, my mind running a million miles an hour as it came in collision with a giant headache. “But didn’t have sex,” he quickly added.

       “Are you sure?” I questioned.

       “Believe me, I would’ve remembered something as monumental as that,” he smirked.

       “Prove it,” I demanded, stretching my arms up over my head, immediately regretting it when I felt my shirt rise with me. I rushed over my mirror, and saw that I was clad in an oversized, black T-shirt, and nothing else. The shirt didn’t belong to me. It had a nice scent though- a mixture of musk, sweat, and laundry detergent.

       “Fine.” He walked over to a pair of crumped up jeans that were lying on the floor, and picked them up. After sliding a hand in a back pocket, he withdrew three, small, square packets.

       “Condoms?” I questioned, not understanding.

       “Even while drunk, I always use protection; my mother raised me right,” he said, making me slightly uncomfortable with the items he was holding in his hand.

       “So?”

       “I always carry three condoms in my back pocket… just in case. If one were to be missing, then I would know that I got lucky,” he explained, placing the form of defense back into his jeans.

       “So… we just slept next to each other?” I concluded. He nodded. “Why?”

       “Because someone doesn’t handle her alcohol too well,” he said, pointedly looking at me. I rolled my eyes, staring at his figure, and then shook my head. “Yeah, I know, my abs are beautiful.”

       I scoffed, ignoring his egotistical remark, and looked back at myself in the mirror, trying to recall any events that had happened the previous night, but my mind was blank. Dylan was right, I sucked at getting drunk.

       All of the sudden, I felt a wave of nausea, and ran out of my room into the bathroom down the hall. I lowered myself down to the toilet, and thankfully reached it in time just as puke erupted grossly from my mouth. I felt like absolute shit.

       Someone entered the small room, and I momentarily stopped vomiting my guts out to look down and see Dylan’s feet beside me. Then, I heard it: laughing. Dylan was laughing. That asshole! To me, nothing about the situation was remotely funny! I felt like crap and had no recollection of the previous night’s festivities.