My Brothers Best Friend [18+]

Chapter Ten

I slowly blink the sleep from my eyes and gently move my hands over my bloated stomach, a groan leaving my chapped lips. There's hair in my mouth that I try to spit out but it doesn't budge until I reach up and pull it away. 

"Don't touch me, I'm sensitive." 

I crank one eye open and see a head of black hair next to me. I squeeze my eyes closed again, willing the light pouring from the window to go away and leave me alone. 

"Did I throw up?" 

My voice is croaky and burning, like there's acid sitting at the roof of my mouth and sinking into my tongue. 

"Yes. On me. Shut the fuck up." 

I listen to her request because I can't stand the own sound of my voice when it's like this either. I push my arm up underneath the pillow to feel the cold cotton and sigh into the covers half over my face. 

It smells like tobacco, cologne and sweat. 

That's not right. Is that right? Is that what my blankets usually smell of? 

I try to open my eyes again, squinting at the light that continues pouring into the room. The comforter is dark grey, crinkled and pulled in every which direction between Chelsea and I - and it most definitely is not my own. 

Sleeping on an actual bed should've been my first clue. 

I try to nudge my head up from my pillow, looking around the room. The walls are a cream colour, with a dark grey feature wall to match the bedding. There's a TV opposite the bed that's almost bigger than the TV downstairs, and a gaming console plugged into it. 

A large mirror leans against one of the cream walls, next to a framed poster with an old sports car on it. 

I take my sweet time turning over so my stomach doesn't flip out and make me want to throw up again, and am greeted with a framed photograph of young Noah and two people I can only assume are his parents. 

My breath hitches. 

I reach over for it, the frame cold beneath my fingers, and pull it over towards me. 

Noah. Noah. 

Shit, what did I do last night? 

I have vague memories, memories of pressing against him, of coming onto him. Of calling him hot to his actual face - what is wrong with me?

I look back to his smiling face in the photograph, to the equally wide smiles of his parents stood either side of him, and wail. 

"Mads, if you don't shut the fuck up-"

"Please tell me I didn't throw myself at Noah yesterday?" 

There's a beat of silence, and I already know the answer. 

Oh God. Oh, God. End it all. 

My stomach takes another turn as I try to sit up, so I collapse back into his bed which smells just like he does and does not help how I feel right now. 

"I embarrassed myself?" I ask her. 

She huffs and turns towards me. Her cheeks are full of eyeliner that she didn't remove properly, there's a hint of green sparkle still sitting on each of her eyelids. 

She takes one of my hands in her own and then slowly brings it up to my own mouth, pressing it down so I can't speak. 

I roll my eyes at her. 

"He already knows he's hot. I'm sure you didn't tell him anything he hasn't heard before." She explains quietly, voice as croaky as my own. "You did throw up. On me. All over me."