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With my coat on and my purse over my shoulder, I walk across the bar, my heart beating harder the closer I get to the sleeping stranger.
Not sure how to wake him, I look back at Colleen, and she motions for me to get on with it, like I’m wasting her time.
I sigh.
“Hey.” I nudge him. “The bar is closed. It’s time to go.”
Nothing. He’s totally out.
“Dude.” I raise my voice and shake his shoulder. “You need to wake up.” His head flies up, startling me, and I jump back. When his glassy-eyed gaze focuses on me, I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. “It’s time to go. The bar is closed.”
Looking around the empty bar with a frown, he stands—or at least tries to. He stumbles and attempts to catch himself using the table he’s been sitting at, his weight causing it to screech across the concrete floor, almost sending it and him crashing to the ground.
Great.
Letting out a frustrated breath, I get into his space. “Come on, buddy.” I duck under his arm and wrap one around his back, the other around his front, so I’m basically hugging his side. He’s so tall he hunches over me like a weeping willow, blocking everything out. I groan under his heavy weight and shuffle him toward the door Colleen opens for us.
So helpful.
“See you in the morning.”
“Yep,” I reply through gritted teeth and hear the door to the bar close behind us, then lock.
Jerk.
The two of us stumble and swerve down the sidewalk that leads from the bar to the hotel, and it takes all my effort to keep us from ending up in a bush or sprawled on the concrete path, but by some miracle, I pull off the impossible.
Halfway up the brick steps that lead to the second floor balcony, where our rooms are located, he makes a noise that sounds a lot like he’s going to be sick.
I tip my head back and glare at him. “If you throw up on me, I swear I’m letting you go.”
“Who’re you,” he slurs, frowning at me like he’s never seen me before.
“Your fairy godmother, apparently,” I grumble, urging him up two more steps. “You should really learn when to stop drinking.”
“Fuck off,” he bites out.
“You fuck off,” I bite back. “And that’s no way to talk to the person helping you to your room because you decided to drown your sorrows and can’t hold your liquor.”
“You don’t know shit,” he growls, letting me go to cling to the railing.
I don’t know much, but I know you’re a jerk, I think, but I keep my mouth shut. I just need to get him to his room, and then I can be done with him and go to bed.
With a deep breath, I get him up the rest of the stairs and make sure he doesn’t fall over the black wrought-iron railing that runs along the balcony in front of our rooms. When we reach his door, I take the key from him and open it.
He stumbles toward the bathroom while I flip on the light, and then I stand in the doorway and listen to him start to heave.
I should leave and let him sort himself out, but my stupid conscience gets the better of me. Closing the door, I walk across the room that is the same size and setup as mine. A dresser and a single chair, the queen bed still made. A suitcase is open on the floor, everything folded neatly inside, with a pair of worn sneakers next to it, and there’s some cash and papers on the nightstand.
Entering the bathroom, I’m greeted with the familiar smell of vomit, and I find him on his knees in front of the toilet. I grab one of the washcloths still folded on the stack of towels I put in the room yesterday when I cleaned and turn on the tap. When it’s soaked, I wring it out and place it on the back of his neck.
“Why the fuck are you still here?” He doesn’t even try to lift his head. With how drunk he is, he probably can’t without everything spinning out of control.
“That’s the million-dollar question.” I sigh. “Do you want to try to stand?”
“No.”
“Okay.” I move around him and take a seat on the edge of the bathtub to wait. My feet and back ache from cleaning and standing all day.
