Wicked Restless

I do.

And I drink one more after that.

I’ve been drunk on beer before. Owen was always more lenient about that. But never the hard stuff. This buzz…it’s different.

I like it.

I stop after two, though, and manage to discard a third shot of whiskey, knowing any more will probably have me throwing up. The living room has become the hub for the party, and Sasha has set herself next to me, her legs draped across my lap from one side of the beanbag to the other. I can tell she’s lit, and House keeps raising an eyebrow at me.

“You look a lot like your brother, you know?” she says, taking a long, slow drink of whatever’s in her cup. Sasha was always the girl—the red-hot one who every guy wanted to sleep with and many had. She always liked Owen, though. They had a fling, but I don’t think she could ever call my brother hers.

Right now, she’s looking at me with eyes that say she’s willing to accept the consolation—even if it’s three years younger.

“Well, we’re related,” I say, laying my hands on her knees, feeling the temptation of how smooth they are sting my fingertips. I leave them there for a few seconds and slide them out an inch at a time, moving up her thigh and down her shin simultaneously, like I’m playing an instrument. She bites her bottom lip when I do, letting it slowly slide from her teeth, and I can completely understand why every other dude in the room wants to trade spots with me right now.

“You’re the cuter one,” she teases me. I keep my eyes on her legs, knowing if I look to the right, into her eyes, they’ll be waiting to seduce me. But then…

Sasha isn’t Emma.

I’m buzzed, but that thought floats on repeat in my head. Emma. I can’t stop thinking about Emma.

“Well, I’m younger, so I guess that makes me cuter,” I say, lips tight in a semi-smile, hiding my inner struggle to do the right thing. Sliding my hands under her legs gingerly, I let myself hesitate for one extra second before lifting her legs from my lap and pushing myself to my feet.

I move to the stools on the other side of the room, taking a seat next to House, who is shaking his head at me.

“Dude, you might be the first virgin I’ve ever seen say no to that,” he laughs lightly.

“Yeah,” I sigh.

“Here,” he says, handing me a joint he’s been smoking for the last few minutes. I look at it in his hand, then look to Sasha who has now let her legs fall open; I can see the black lace of her underwear peaking out through the middle. I turn back to the joint and pinch it between my fingers, bringing it to my lips. Drunk and high is still probably a better choice. Of course, the smart thing probably would have been to choose neither, but I blew that with the second shot of whiskey.

I spend the next three hours intensely watching two guys play a made-up game on the pool table—rolling the striped balls at the solids. There don’t seem to be any rules, or fuck—maybe there are rules. Whatever, it’s fascinating. I watch it until I realize exactly how boring it is, and when I glance at my watch, it’s ten o’clock at night and somehow five hours of my life have passed and I missed it.

I walk through the house to find a bathroom and stumble into a room where House seems to have filled whatever need Sasha had, and I feel a little tinge of regret that I didn’t give in. Her shirt is off, and her bare tits are staring at me. She’s clearly comfortable with her body, because she stands up from her straddling position on House, her lace underwear the only thing on, and steps toward me. House slaps her ass as she walks away, his drunken laugh a soundtrack to her strut.

“Bathroom,” I stutter, somehow. She giggles and moves close enough to touch my chest with her index finger, dragging it slowly down my T-shirt and stomach until she runs it along my now-hard cock.

“Down the hall one more door,” she smiles, pressing her palm flat against my jeans and pausing as I pulse. “Or you can stay…”

“I’m good,” I breathe, aware of every sensation happening under the zipper of my jeans. I leave the room and hear her laughter briefly behind the door, but I keep my resolve, putting one foot in front of the next until I get to the bathroom where I take the most painful piss of my entire life—then spend about five minutes running water over my face.

I quickly pass the room on my way back down the hall, not wanting to hear any sounds that might act as a siren and call me in.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I twist the cap and drink about half of it before fishing my keys from my pocket. In a house full of people, I’m still alone, and I wonder if this is how Owen felt when he would come to these parties.