Best Thing In Town

Night two and round two had begun around ten that night. And by eleven, my thoughts started to kick in full force, and to say I was annoyed with myself was a tragic understatement.

I had no way of knowing if Billie Joe was going to be here. Last night was luck. And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why the hell I'd come back for a second night. What was I trying to prove?

"Drink?" I turned to face Carson, a thin yet discreetly inviting smile across his lips. I nodded, barely out of my trance, but nodded nonetheless. He popped a bottle of beer in my hand and I took it graciously. Much like the night before, he just peered down at me with those eyes of his. I didn't know what he was expecting, so I forced a smile--probably a lopsided grin--and left the kitchen.

There it was, open in my hand, untouched by my lips. I must have been stupid to give a nod to Carson when he asked if I wanted to drink. I don't drink. So why the hell did I nod?

Standing in the hallway, I suddenly realized how I must have appeared to anyone walking by; a girl gazing down at a bottle in her hand as if it were preforming a dramatic monolouge only she had ears for. And with the reddening of my cheeks at the thought, I raised the bottle and gulped, brought it back down, and swallowed hard at the shock. And then was the first sip was over, I proceeded with ease throughout the night.

Somewhere between frequent trips to the kitchen and the seemingly constant nodding of my head, I hadn't forgotten about Billie Joe--of course not--but forgotten what I had to prove to myself. So I continued like this, wandering around, smiling dizzily in anyone's direction, peering in their eyes momentarily to see if they were Armstrong's, but, no, none of them were.

Then somewhere after midnight, I heard chuckling behind me as I bent down into the cooler for another of whatever I was drinking. I looked up, looked down at my numb hand, and then back up again to see Carson. A charming grin. "I think you've had enough of those for one night, my dear." I watched in a daze as his arm reached across mine and shut the lid to the ice chest. I furrowed my eyebrows briefly, but did not disagree. I hardly said anything.

The night seemed to slip into a time warp. I was suddenly in Carson's lap on the back porch under the warm light coming from the open kitchen window overhead. We were listening to music and not much of anything else. Then I was suddenly being held up in front of Carson and he was peering down at me again. And I wasn't saying much and neither was he. Then the floral print of the bed sheets. I couldn't stop looking at the bed sheets. Then Carson. Carson's mouth. Then yelling. Loud noises. Pushing. Fighting. More yelling. Crying. Then sick. So sick.

I woke up in the passenger seat of a pick-up. My head was facing the window, it was open. It was still dark out. Those were the only thoughts I could think until my head began throbbing and everything from eyes to my stomach started to ache. "I guess you don't drink much, do you?" His voice responded to my groan.

I lulled my head across the head rest to look at him. Black eye, busted lip, dry blood under his nose. A smile. There was a blue tint to everything and he was stunning. And, my God, he was smiling. He had laugh lines and a black eye at the same time, and in my alarmingly drastic dazed state, I could not have been more amazed. But, wait.

"Why the hell am I in your truck?"