“Calla,” he began softly, too gently. Like way too gently.

Oh no. This was so bad.

“Honey, that’s . . .”

My heart started pounding violently, drowning out whatever Jax was saying. This was like fucked-up bad. As in the kind of bad one did not live down. I tried to kiss Jax, beautiful and charming and so fucking nice Jax.

I actually tried to kiss him?

Oh my God . . . tequila sucked butt.

“. . . I said you were safe with me.” His voice was deeper, lower when I tuned back in to whatever the hell he was talking about. “I wasn’t lying.”

What the hell did that have to do with the price of tea in China? Or the tequila that had suddenly turned on me like a crackhead with a rusty spork? I tried to kiss him and he had jerked back from me, physically removed himself from my mouth.

Holy shit balls.

The messy and wet ball was back, this time in my stomach and my chest, but it was mingling with something else that was vile, and quickly rising.

Oh no.

I lurched back, tearing myself from his grasp. “Oh my God,” I gasped out. “I can’t believe I tried . . .” I swallowed a hiccup, a bad hiccup. “Oh wow.”

“It’s okay. Why don’t we sit down?” he offered, taking a step toward me.

Another hiccup. “Tequila is a dirty whore.”

Jax frowned, brows coming down. “Calla—”

Spinning around, I darted for the bedroom. I could feel it. The mess was almost there. I stumbled around the bed, my feet slipping as I hit the bathroom door, slamming my hands into it. The door cracked off the wall, no doubt denting the plaster.

I hit the floor on my knees in front of the toilet—oh God, was this toilet even clean? Too late. I grasped the sides as my stomach heaved and rolled, bringing up everything and anything.

Tequila fucking sucked.

Thirteen

Tequila was the wild juice of the devil and I’d never partake in it again.

The most messed-up thing was that people always claimed that they didn’t remember what they did when they were drunk. I call bull poop on that, because I remembered—oh God, I could recall it all—in painstaking, humiliating detail.

I’d told Jax all the things I hadn’t done, and some of that crap was just ridiculous. Like things that probably made him think I grew up in a bomb shelter or something.

Then I’d cuddled the bottle. Cuddled it. Like it was a puppy. Or a kitten. Whatever. Something furry that was not a fucking bottle of liquor.

I’d also shown him a trophy and a picture of me all gussied up like a baby doll and told him I used to be pretty. That alone made me want to shove my head in an oven, but oh, there’d been more.

I’d also told him about the Mom stuff, which was too horrifying to even repeat.