The Right Kind of Wrong: A Brother's Best Friend Romance, Fabiola Francisco [top 20 books to read TXT] 📗

That one spin does me in, and my hand flies to my mouth, hoping to keep down the contents in my stomach. Holding my finger up, I turn around and race to the bathroom, hoping it’s in the direction I’m going and that there’s an empty stall.

I must look like shit because the girl who is about to walk into a stall moves away and urges me in. Unashamed, I throw up with the door open until tears burn my eyes, and my throat is dry. Heaving one last time, I feel heat cover my neck and cheeks as I turn around to an audience staring at me with wide, concerned eyes.

Goodness, could I be any more of a mess right now?

This is a first for me, and I vow to make it the last time I puke in a bar with an audience because of too much alcohol. Rinsing my mouth and washing my hands, I slowly walk back to my friends, ready to tell them I’m heading home. Everything spins, and when the next wave of nausea hits, I want to be hugging my own toilet in PJs.

I wave off Rubén when he offers to walk me home, but he’s stubborn and a good friend who ignores my dismissal and makes sure I get home safe.

After getting ready for bed and standing still in the bathroom in case I need to puke again, I lie in bed, watching the ceiling spin until I fall asleep.

- - - - -

Ugghhh… I turn on my bed, groaning as my dry tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My brain slams in my head, killing me with the pain. Lord, what in the world possessed me to drink so much last night? Let loose, my ass. I went drunk crazy. I should’ve known too much tequila would be a bad thing. I’ve always been a lightweight when it comes to it.

Turning onto my back, I squeeze my eyes shut as I replay the night before. Pieces of the puzzle coming together with missing spaces where all I see are black flashes. Unfortunately, my puking fiasco is not one of those lost memories.

Covering my face with my hands, I sit up slowly, my stomach churning. Liquor before beer, have no fear, is a damn myth. I bet that last beer I drank was the tipping point.

I grab my phone to check the time and groan again. I need greasy pizza and a Coke to cure this hangover. Thankfully, it’s almost lunchtime, so it’s acceptable to pig out on cheese pizza. I call in an order for delivery because there is no way my hungover self is walking out into the light of day so that the sun can shine the hangover on my face for everyone to read like some invisible ink revealing itself.

After ordering lunch, I jump in the shower and wash away last night, the alcohol in my blood still pumping as I sway and hold myself up on the shower wall. Thankfully, it seems like I released everything last night in the bathroom, and my stomach only complains a bit.

That shower was a blessing. Combing my hair and dressing in cotton shorts and a t-shirt, I wait for my food to arrive. Plopping on the couch, I turn on the television, lowering the volume, and have my ibuprofen ready to swallow as soon as my pizza arrives.

Opening Instagram, message notifications catch my eye right away, sending my heart into my throat as I wonder if Camden got tired of my silence and is pushing for some kind of response.

I read his last message with confusion until I scroll up and freeze, heart-stopping nausea washes over me, and this time it’s not because of the alcohol. Actually, I could totally blame the alcohol for this. When the hell did I send him a message last night? I can’t remember doing that.

Oh, my goodness, I’m going to puke again. Checking the timestamp, I realize I was still at the first bar when I sent him this. Foolish, traitorous margaritas! I read what I wrote, trying to decipher my drunk texting.

@AllyinSpain: I hte yip n thst stypd smie you thnk yoy csn tll me you wnna hve sex w me agin n grt awsy w it

@CamSteeleIT: Sorry to disappoint but I’m not fluent in pig latin or whatever that is supposed to be

@CAmSteeleIT: Although I do see the word sex so I take it you’re thinking about my Steele of a cock

@CamSteeleIt: Get it? lol

@CamSteeleIT: They say when you’re drunk the truth comes out <wink emoji>

I drop my head back on the couch and close my eyes, wondering if I wish this drunken message away it will miraculously disappear. I peek one eye open and still see it on the screen. This is worse than my hangover, and I haven’t been hungover in a long time.

I take a deep breath and collect myself. I’m about to write back when my doorbell buzzes from downstairs, and I leap from the couch, thankful for the interruption. When the delivery guy makes it to my door, I pay him and thank him, grabbing a plate and cup on the way back to the living room. With the television in the background and my mouth full of cheesy, greasy goodness, I begin typing on my phone.

@AllyinSpain: I was drunk

@CamSteeleIT: It seems that you being drunk brings out the truth. The wedding, last night… I can’t wait to see what comes next

@AllyinSpain: Nothing. No more damn drinking for me.

@CamSteeleIT: Sure… Then what excuse will you use to write to me?

@AllyinSpain: I should block you

@CamSteeleIT: If you feel you need to block me it’s bc you’re too tempted to send me a message. You should look into the real meaning behind that

I inhale deeply, calming myself before replying. He’s driving me insane with his know-it-all attitude and