♡ ink ♡ lrh ♡

♡ six ♡

*smut warning*

♡ ♡ ♡ s i x ♡ ♡ ♡

♡ ♡ ♡ g e m m a ♡ ♡ ♡

Luke never texted me back, and that's probably why I'm drinking my sorrows away on a Tuesday. It's been five days since I sent the text, and every day Rocky would ask if he texted me back. Each time I told her no, and my heart sank a little at the same excuse she'd always throw out. He's probably just busy. I never told her it was Luke. I didn't have the nerve.

Today was my first night off in almost a week, and I was spending it drinking alone in my apartment. Magnolia called me earlier, asking if I wanted to have a sleepover at her place, but I said no. And Rocky asked me to cover Megan's shift so she wouldn't have to work with her, but again I said no.

I didn't have the energy to see anyone, and I was already on my fourth drink. I was trying to watch a movie but with the alcohol running through my system, I could hardly focus. My mind was elsewhere, mainly on the fact that Luke hadn't texted me back, and the millions of questions I had surrounding it.

Why hasn't he answered? Why would he tell me to text him, and still not answer? Was Rocky right? Is he busy? Should I take his not texting back as a sign that he doesn't want to see me again? Should I send another text?

I've always been one to let the guys make the first move, but lately I've felt like that takes too long. I haven't been with anyone in a year and a half and the longer I wait, the lonelier I become. Maybe that's why I slept with Luke, and maybe that's what drove me to pick up my phone. Before I could even process what I was doing, I was typing out hi and pressing send.

I almost threw my phone across the room at the realization, but then it vibrated. He'd texted back almost immediately. Where are you? he asked. Home, I replied, drunk. Fifteen minutes of me obsessively checking my phone passed, and my stupid drunken self decided to send another could use some company, was all it said, but it got his attention. Be there in ten, he replied.

I rushed to shove clothes in my closet and tidy up the best I could, checking my appearance in the mirror and trying to tame my hair. I splashed water on my face and changed from my sweatpants into jeans, nervously waiting to buzz him up. Surely enough, in ten minutes, he was knocking on my door.

I took a deep breath, pushing my hair out of my face and opening the door to reveal a grinning Luke. He had a leather jacket on and tight black jeans with a black shirt and boots. He looked like the boys my mother would warn me about, and I loved it. He brought out a paper bag from behind his back and held it up with a grin.

"I brought tequila," he said, and I let him in. "Because I remember what it does to you." He winked, shrugging off his jacket and setting it on my dining room table. "I'm assuming that's why you invited me over?" he asked, taking off his shoes.

"More or less," I said. I wouldn't object to another night with him. "But you'll have to catch up, cause I'm pretty drunk and you look pretty sober." He sat on the couch, the movie I'd forgotten about long ago played in the background.

"Before I do that, let's have a shot together," he suggested.

I didn't have any shot glasses, so I grabbed him a mug—because that's what I was drinking out of. He poured us each a shot of tequila, and we clinked mugs before downing the harsh liquid. He took a few more shots, surprisingly quickly, to get to my level.

"So what were you watching?" he asked, setting the bottle down and leaning back. We'd shared our second shot together, the bottle was near half-empty. Luke drank a lot and fast, and hardly seemed affected by it.