Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

JOHNNY

Hungover didn't even come close to describing the battering my head was taking when I finally surfaced to consciousness. I was sprawled out on the cold, unforgiving floor of our tent, feeling like I'd taken a rugby tackle straight to the head. Every nerve in my stomach was rioting against the slightest movement, each churn daring me to test which side would win in this war against my upchuck reflex. I held as still as humanly possible, eyes half-shut, until finally I dared crack them open—and instantly regretted it as sunlight drilled its way into my brain.

"Christ, I'm dying," I whimpered, praying for some salvation or, at the very least, a bit of divine intervention. "Dear God, save me. I'm dead."

A groan, equally painful and pitiful, sounded from somewhere near me. Forcing myself to turn my head, I glimpsed Tara lying there, looking about as rough as I felt, her face scrunched in a miserable grimace as she squirmed like she was trying to escape her own skin.

"Shut the fuck up," she croaked, her voice rough and husky. Twisting onto her stomach, she face-planted into the inflatable mattress and let out a loud groan. "Close the bloody curtains or something, Jonathan, for the love of God—anything to make that godawful sun stop shining, or I swear I'll shoot ya."

"I can't," I moaned, wallowing in self-pity. "I'm on the way out, baby. Practically gone already."

"Then close the fucking tent when you do that," she shot back, her voice muffled by a pillow.

"But I'm naked," I cried out. "I don't want to die naked."

"Who the fuck cares?" she grumbled, equally naked beside me. "You'll be dead, ya eejit. Mort. Muerto. Morto."

As groggy and battered as I felt, I couldn't help letting my gaze drift over her bare form, my eyes lingering on the curve of her arse. My memory was a muddled blur, and with a pang of worry, I asked, "Did we, uh..." I folded my arms across my chest awkwardly. "Did wedo it last night?"

"Did we do it last night?" she mimicked, her voice dripping with mockery as she tilted her head to glare at me. "What are ya now—a bleeding nun?"

"Babe," I whined, my face scrunched up in earnest confusion. "Did we do it last night?"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph..." she muttered, her words muffled into the pillow. "Do what?"

"Have sex?" I asked, glancing around for any telltale evidence of a foil wrapper, only to panic when I didn't spot one. "Did I put a baby in ya, baby?"

If she didn't answer me right this fucking second, I was either going to buy her a ring and marry her or cut my own dick off before my ma even got the chance.

"The only thing I'm gonna put in ya is a bullet," she muttered, "straight to the head. Now, where's my baby?"

"I'm right here, baby."

"Not you," she huffed. "My gun."

"Baby..."

"Leave me alone," she whined, clutching her pillow closer and burrowing deeper into it. "I wanna sleep."

"Baby," I pressed on, reaching out to poke her shoulder gently.

"Touch me again, and I'll bite that finger off clean, Johnny Kavanagh," she warned, voice dark and deadly, though her eyes remained shut.

"Tara, I'm seriously panicking here, baby," I told her, my voice laced with growing desperation. "Just tell me if we had sex, and I'll let ya sleep. I swear."

With a dramatic sigh, she flopped onto her back, fixing me with a dangerous, narrowed stare, her green eyes flashing. "What do ya think, Einstein?" She gestured to herself, revealing skin marked with hickeys and the faint outline of a few bite marks. My stomach dropped in both horror and pride.