Fairest by Beth Bishop Page B

all,” I said out of practice more than truth. “I had fun playing pool,” which wasn’t a lie.
    After I walked out the door, I closed it behind me. The night was cold, but the air cleared my head and lungs. I felt better, even if my clothes and hair reeked.
    The big house was dark, but I found my way back into it and up to the room Whit described. My bag sat on an actual luggage caddy, like at a hotel. I dug out my toiletry bag. After washing my face in the bathroom the bedroom next to it shared, I changed into my sweatpants and an old T-shirt of my daddy’s. I set the alarm for nine and crawled into the queen-sized bed.
    My daddy would never have approved of underage drinking or smoking, but Whit’s parents didn’t seem to care at all. I guessed it was part of their culture. In my limited experience, drunk people tended to do stupid things. The teenagers I’d been around this night reinforced that opinion.
    As I snuggled into the down comforter, I wondered if Whit would find a replacement for me. Since I didn’t know how I felt about him, the thought didn’t bother me too much. At times, I really liked him. I was attracted to him, when he didn’t reek of smoke and alcohol. I just didn’t know if the pros could outshine all the cons. As I tried to remind myself what the pros were, I fell asleep.
    * * * *
    The sensation of weight falling on the bed beside me startled me awake. The bedside clock read that it was four in the morning. After fumbling around, I found the switch for the lamp and flicked it on.
    I rolled over to find Linc on top of the covers, curled up on his side and facing me. By all appearances, he was asleep, with his hands sandwiched between his thighs near his knees. He took deep, even breaths. He wore only his boxers, a white undershirt, and one white athletic sock. I looked around at the floor and found a trail of clothes and shoes that began at the door and ended at the bed. I frowned at him and shoved against his shoulder.
    â€œLinc.” I poked him. “Get out of my room.”
    He grunted unhappily but didn’t wake. I shoved him, again. “No, Mom. Sleepy,” he said.
    â€œI’m not your mom. Get out of my bed.” I shoved him more forcefully.
    He grumbled, scratched himself, and tucked his hands under his chin without ever waking. I pursed my lips and glared at him. Then, my glaring turned into a genuine study of him. His lips were very red, probably from the alcohol. With the side of his face smushed into the pillow, his mop of dark hair scattered across it. He looked peaceful, completely at rest. He smelled faintly of cologne and strongly of bourbon.
    I poked him a few more times. When he didn’t respond, I rolled my eyes and turned off the light. I couldn’t wake him. I couldn’t drag him out of the bed, and I wasn’t going to sleep on the floor or get up and hunt for a free room. I decided he was sleeping too heavily to try anything with me. If he did, I could easily knee him in the groin. I turned my back to him, scooted as close to the edge of the bed and as far away from him as I could, and went back to sleep.
    * * * *
    The alarm went off at nine. From behind me, Linc moaned but didn’t move. After several seconds of slapping around, I finally hit the snooze button. Half-awake, I snuggled back into the covers. Linc hummed, and a breeze of bourbon-tinged morning breath blew over my shoulder. Then, my eyes flew open as I registered my current situation.
    In the night, Linc had migrated over to my side of the bed. The front of his body molded to my back, and his hand was under my shirt on my belly, hugging me a bit. When I tried to scoot away, he murmured in protest and held me tighter. He inhaled deeply and sighed.
    â€œLinc,” I said, rolling over a bit and trying to look at him over my shoulder. His hair was a mess, and he had dark circles under his eyes. “Linc.”
    â€œSkye,” he said