The Publicist's Plight (Book I in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Thirty One : Thoughts In The Rain

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SEBASTIAN

I wake up from a dreamless sleep.

I slowly open my eyes and stare at the ceiling with a blurred layer in front of my vision. The shadows on the wall are of small rain splatters from my window. Is it really fucking raining outside?

God dammit.

I push my body up, but fall back down again. Fuck—I drank way too much last night, and I can feel it pounding in my head and drying my mouth. After trying to get up a few more times, I finally sit up and feel the blood travel down from my head to the rest of my body, making me feel even shittier. I don't remember much about what happened last night. Either that, or I can't figure out if it was real or just my imagination.

There's a crack of thunder outside, followed by a groan at the end of the room. It must be the wind, if there is any, pushing itself against my windows. I rub my eyes, then hold my head down in my hands. What the hell happened last night?

The groaning continues. I turn to my right and blink a few times to see if the sight in front of me is actually real. And it is—as real as "real" gets.

Leslie is sleeping on the small couch by the window. Her body is curled together, except for her left arm, which is laid out by her side with her cell phone in her hand. When my eyes finally meet her sleeping body, the events of last night come to my mind instantly.

Holy shit. That really didn't happen...did it?

I know why she's here—she had come into my bathroom when I was piss drunk and high off of everything I could find in my stash pocket in my travel bag. I thought she was going to completely own me about being such an idiot. And she did, which is typical for Leslie anyway. But then I remember her sitting down next to me and listening to me speak—listening to me blabber on about the shit that deserves to be hidden.

The next thing I remember is myself crying—the worst memory I can recall. I'm usually a sad drunk, believe it or not. I'm only fun when I'm tipsy. You know, the type of drunk that's close to being shit-faced but not there all the way yet? I try to reach tipsiness and keep it at that level for as long as I can, because there's nothing more depressing than a sad drunk.

I guess I went too far this morning.

Then I recall her hands around my head; I cried in her arms, didn't I? I should be embarrassed, and to be honest I am...but not as embarrassed as I should be. All I can think about is that feeling of comfort that I can't accurately describe. I'm sure the closest I can get to describing that comfort would be describing how I felt with Gloria, but that's a feeling I force myself to suppress.

I realize I'm staring at her when another crack of thunder sounds off outside. It makes me jump a bit and snap out of my creep fest. God, am I really watching someone sleep? When was the last time I actually did that?

Oh, that's right—never.

Leslie shivers a bit and rubs her feet together. She's still wearing her slippers, which gives me the impression she didn't have intentions on staying. Why did she, though? Why did she even come to see if I was still alive in the first place? Then again, I shouldn't even be questioning her motives. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably wouldn't be alive, for Christ's sake.

And that reality hits me harder than I thought it would.

I hate to be that sappy fuck, but I think she actually...saved me. And no, not save as in that shitty love-story type of saving where the guy is beyond privileged but still needs that taste of something more to fill that hipster void in himself.