Angel Blood

9- Drunken Tempations

Sinclair manages to rush me up the stairs before I kick myself out of his arms, still clutching the bottle of vodka to my chest as acid rises in my throat.

I puke. Everywhere.

I make it to the bathroom, which is a slight relief, but the result of a night of swigging sips of vodka spills from my throat and coats the vinyl dress and the shiny tile floor in front of the toilet.

Sinclair's heavy footsteps approach and I scramble to kick the door shut.

"Don't come in." I gasp as another wave of nausea hits and I double-over into the toilet, choking on bile and the remains of food in my stomach.

His heavy sigh tells me he's come in anyway. It doesn't surprise me. I don't know why I even bother trying to warn him off when the man has the listening ability of a toddler.

I groan, resting my forehead on the porcelain my stomach clenches painfully. Gentle hands scoop the hair out of my face as I bend back into the bowl.

He's patient as I expel the alcohol from my system. Quiet as I curse every horrid word known to man between heaves.

After minutes of retching, my stomach settles a notch. I sit back on my heels, glancing up at him as he wordlessly hands me toilet paper to wipe my mouth with.

"Thanks," I whisper, dabbing my face as I avoid looking into his disapproving gaze.

He raises a dark brow. "You done?"

Wincing, I push the bottle away from me so it clanks noisily against the wall. "I think so." The emptiness of my hands alarms me. Something itches in my sluggish mind—a missing piece I can't seem to muster.

Then it clicks. "My gun." And just when I got her back. I sigh in frustration, fingers curling at her absence.

Sinclair sighs heavily, rolling his stormy eyes. "You and that damn gun. Where did you put it?"

My eyebrows scrunch together as I search my mind. The night blends with alcohol and conversations with nameless men. "Um. Somewhere down at the bar?"

"Oliver?"

I don't realize he's approached to watch the freak show until his deep voice comes from the doorway. He nods, spinning on his heels. "On it."

The silence stretches between us at his departure. I wince at the mess I've made, shifting uncomfortably at the evidence that covers my body. "I need a shower."

He hums in agreement, eyes strangely intense on mine as he steps back so that I can rise from where I crouch on the floor.

I cringe as I raise myself with knees as weak as a newborn deer. I hobble on my feet, gasping as Sinclair's warm hands grasp my arms to catch me.

A steadying breath shudders past my lips as I brush away his hands. "Thanks."

"Turn around." His eyes are too intense as they stare into mine, face so serious that it makes a knot form in my stomach.

My brow furrows. "What?"

"Turn. Around."

Silently, I spin so he faces my back. Gentle fingers brush my hair over my shoulder and grip the zipper between my shoulder blades.

I stiffen. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you undress."

The breath whooshes from my stomach. If everything wasn't spinning, I'd turn around and plant my foot in his groin. "The fuck you're not."

"You can barely stand on your own two feet," he says, coldness brushing my skin as he unzips the black vinyl fabric. "So yes, I am."

"Has anyone told you that you're extraordinarily terrible at listening?"