Bad Intentions (8 page)

The unbelievably loud chirping of birds outside of my window infuriates me as they sing in their morning glory kind of way. I hold the pillow over my head and try to mute their noise.

There is a steady throb of pain beating against my skull, and I struggle to keep my lids closed. I’m not ready to face the day – or reality. The sun’s rays have an open invitation through the unobstructed window, and sunshine spreads over my body, engulfing me in its warmth. The sunrays dance across my exposed limbs like they’re rehearsing for a live casting of America’s Got Talent. It’s true that I’m in need of their complementary dose of vitamin-D, but right now, I just want to be annoyed and sulk.

Instead of welcoming the day, I lie still. Every time I move, the room spins around me like a ride at a carnival. My lips are so dry they feel like they’re going to crack open unless I get some moisturizer on them stat, but my mind keeps getting sidetracked by the little noises coming from my stomach. I know at any moment, I might hurl. My mouth feels like it’s being filled up by a saliva hose, and I swallow to push it down, trying to avoid tossing my cookies. “Shit!” I jump out of bed and leap into the bathroom. Hugging the porcelain throne, everything comes up. Literally, I mean everything.

A foul odor assaults my nose, as I let my shoulders sag against the seat. In this horrific moment, I’m thankful yet again for a private bathroom.

This is awful.

I never want to drink again.

“I’m so sorry liver,” I cry out between heaves. I palm my exposed stomach as I literally beg it to forgive me for last night’s shenanigans.

After what seems like an eternity, I pull myself up off the floor and brush my teeth. My mouth still feels dirty. It’s stained from the previous night and coated with embarrassment. Like an old lady, I slowly make my way back to my bed. I crawl into a ball and close my eyes, silently begging the drapes to shut on their own. I can’t even muster up the energy to pull them closed.

The swooshing sound of a pillow being tossed through the air tells me that Zoe’s also awoken from the dead. It hits me in the head and bounces off, tumbling to the floor. I forgot she played softball. No wonder she has impeccable aim.

“Ugh,” I hold my forehead in the palm of my head. “Not cool.”

“I take it you’re not feeling up to par.” Her voice is much too loud and cheerful. It echoes off the walls and pierces my ears.

I groan in agony. “You could say that.”

Lifting one lid open, I see her sitting up with her back against the wall. She’s facing directly toward me. Ivory feet with bright blue, painted toes hang off the edge of her bed. I guess she never got the memo as a child: Never—I repeat never—allow your feet to dangle from your bed. Who knows what’s lurking under there, hiding in the dark abyss.

I close my eyes and try to focus what little energy I have on pulling myself together. My father’s voice plays on repeat in my mind. It’s in sync with each thud pounding in my temples. He’s reminding me of what a moronic move it was to drink so heavily. “Everything in moderation.” He’d always say, as he downed a glass of cheap scotch—that is, on the rare occasions that he actually allowed himself to partake. I remember sneaking into his study once and taking a sip from his bottle. I’d spat it on the floor and got caught up in a coughing fit. My mom came rushing into the room, a worried frown etched onto her oval face. I lied and said that I’d swallowed my gum. Maybe this awful hangover is a punishment for lying to her. Hindsight…

“Earth to Adaley…don’t make me chuck another pillow at you.” Zoe’s laughter brings me back. We make eye contact, and she continues, “I was saying, you did a handful of keg stands. I’m surprised you’re even awake right now.”

“Keg what?” I ask baffled by her terminology.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

I squint my eyes to try and dull the pounding. “I wish I were kidding.”

“Okayyy…” she sounds out the word with amusement. “A keg stand is where you grip the rim of the keg and two people hold your legs in the air. It’s like you’re doing a headstand, but there is a tap in your mouth. The goal is to guzzle as much beer as you can.” My face bunches together as I try to recall doing such a thing. “You probably did about five.”

“Did I look dumb?” I don’t know why it matters, but it does.

“Umm, no. You rocked it and looked incredibly hot!”

I grin from ear to ear. I came here open-minded, and while introductions in this place have been a little strange, I’m happy to have a roommate that I can stand. I kind of like this Zoe chick.

“I remember you said something about you used to be a gymnast something or other. The guys barely had a hold of your legs. It was pretty impressive, if I do say so.”

Her gloating causes me to laugh. It’s short lived. “I need to shower. If I’m not out in ten, send in reinforcements. I might have fallen, or passed out, or choked on my own vomit.”

“To be so cute, you’re pretty disgusting. That,” she begins as she waves her hand all around her face. “Blonde hair, good girl thing is all a façade. I can see right through you.”

I smile coyly and dodge her comment.

Eying the towel that I’d draped over my computer chair, I reach forward and instantly become frozen. My mind reels, trying to make sense of what is right in front of me.

What the f…

He didn’t.

Oh, shit. He so did.

On my desk is a bottle of water, two Advil, and a note written on my father’s letterhead. The same paper I’d jotted down directions and my dorm room number on before I went on the open road. I can barely make out the chicken scratch that is Ryle’s name, much less the note.

“Take these. Drink this. Brush twice,” I mumble, reading his words out loud.

Zoe pipes up. “Well there’s a domestic side of Ryle I’ve yet had the pleasure of seeing.”

Is this his idea of a joke? I march toward the bathroom with smoke blowing out my ears and all but slam the door, forgetting that I’m not at home anymore.

Jerking the teal shower curtain open, I yank the faucet to the left. It takes me an annoyingly long time to undress without falling over. I lean over the sink and peel yesterday’s contacts off my eyes, which is no easy task, I might add. Hot water causes the room to steam and the cheaply painted walls to gather condensation. Steam meanders around my naked body as I slip into the stall. I’m surprised at the fact that the water is actually warm. Yesterday, it was barely luke. I take a mental note at the advantage of Sunday showers. Either no one takes a shower on Sunday morning, or everyone is still too hungover to even crawl out of bed. I’m thinking it’s the latter.

Oh, how I wish I were still sleeping.

Shampoo runs down my body and exits through the drain as I stand with my head tilted back under the steady stream of beating water. I’m sure black mascara is running down my face, but I don’t even move to wipe it away. I have zero energy.

My mind slowly pieces together the events of last night. Suddenly my memory comes rushing back to me, as I recall my conversation with
him who shall not be named because he’s a giant dick
—and who doesn’t even deserve the time it takes to even think his name. What’s bizarre, is that Zoe doesn’t even seem like the type of girl that would lust after someone as cruel as he is, and from what I gathered in the short period of time I’ve been here, it seems that she can’t stand him. So what gives?

“She lived it.”
What does that even mean? Why would he tell me that? Maybe I should have switched roommates when I had the chance.

Grabbing the towel off the toilet lid, I wrap it around my body and step out of the shower. The rug beneath my feet is soft and velvety. It reminds me of the rugs at my house. I should have brought more stuff. Sentimental stuff. But, I only brought the necessities. My plan of starting over wasn’t as well thought out as it could have been.

I brush my teeth again. Twice—as directed by some loser who isn’t worth my time.

I swing the door open, only to find Zoe standing nose to nose with me. In her hand is the unopened bottle of water that Ryle pulled out of thin air and left on my desk. As what, a peace bargain? Not a chance in hell, buddy.

“You need to rehydrate. Down this, then get dressed and we’ll go to the cafeteria.”

I can’t shake the memory of what he’d said, even as I process what Zoe is saying to me now. She honest-to-goodness seems legit. Still, I don’t know her from Adam. Giving her the benefit of the doubt and living by girl code and all that jazz would be the right thing to do. But since I’m changing my ways, I coldly respond and let my own insecurities eat away at me. “Okay, whatever.”

She isn’t fazed by my standoffish attitude. I welcome the silence as she nods and moves around me to go shower.

Brushing my hair, I gather it up and tie it into a knot at the top of my head. I’m not one of those girls who are addicted to make up and products. Yes, I like to look nice, but I don’t need a plastered face with seven types of concealer to feel good about myself. I moisturize and dig in my purse for my glasses. It’s
so
that type of day.

Tossing on a pair of athletic shorts, I slide on a sports bra, and rummage through bags I’ve yet to unpack, grabbing a tank top. I’m not trying to be conceited, but I’m cute. I have a good build to my body. It’s not manly and muscular, it’s toned and defined. My hair is long and streaked with a natural blonde glow. And while sometimes I look like I just crawled out of bed, I can also pull off a more feminine, put together look as well. The quote,
if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best
reminds me that it’s okay to dress completely relaxed today. After all, it is Sunday.

Then it dawns on me. My first Sunday here, and I’ve already missed church.
Both services,
I think as I look at the time on my phone.

I’m a failure, and God’s going to condemn me to a life full of lonely nights.

I remember my dad pulling me in his embrace before I left and whispering, “If there’s one thing you do, please go to church on Sunday. Don’t forget to count your blessings and remember who you are in here.” He placed his hand on my chest, patting lightly.

It’s my second day in town, and I’ve already let him down.

“Give me, like, ten and I’ll be ready.” Zoe’s voice sneaks up on me.

I spin around to look at her and flash my gloomy expression. “I missed church this morning,” I profess like a sin.

“And you’re upset that you already let down Daddy.” She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Not so much him,” I snarl. “But myself and God.”

“It’s okay to mess up once in a while. You know that, right?”

My defenses go up. “Oh, like you messed up with Ryle?”

A massive grin tugs the corners of her mouth. Her reaction makes my blood boil. “He’s provoking you. I hope you know that.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “He said—.”

“I know what he said. I heard him.”

She was awake?

“He’s purposefully trying to piss you off, and I can see that it’s working.”

I stiffen in shock. She’s right. He got to me, and I’m officially pissed. “What’d he mean you lived it then?”

Zoe pulls out her black, faux leather office chair and takes a seat. She carefully tucks in the corner of her towel and runs her hands through her damp hair. “He dated my friend, Mindy.” A frown sets into her features as she speaks. “I shouldn’t say dated—he used her and hung her out to dry. It was like watching a yo-yo match where no one ever wins. Mindy worshiped him from the moment they met, and Ryle—being a guy—liked her well-endowed chest. I tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen and in the end, she got burned. Just like I knew would happen. The worst part is that he wasn’t fazed in the slightest. She was all runny mascara and tears, and he was out partying with my brother like a royal ass-hat.”

As I listen to Zoe, it all makes perfect sense. He didn’t mean that she lived it personally. He just meant that she lived through it. Zoe saw his true colors firsthand and for that, I feel bad. I should have noticed him trying to play me. I’ll chalk that one up to my drunkenness. It won’t happen again. Trust me.

“That’s awful,” I sigh and grab bottle of body mist from the top of my bag.

“I think it’s a clear indication that he’s trouble —and not the tempting kind that you came looking for, either. So cross his name off your list of bad boy contenders in your little mission, and lets go get some breakfast…err…lunch.” She stands up and throws on a turquoise sundress. “Oh,” she glances at me and sourly says, “I forgive you for assuming that I’d omit information about ever liking Ryle Benson. Don’t let it happen again,” she warns with a smile.

The pounding in my temples has subsided, and I feel much better having a clear image of who Ryle Benson is.

Douche-canoe.

Donkey.

Jerk-wad.

The list of names could go on and on…

Now on to more important things. “How far is the cafeteria from here?”

Zoe grabs my ahold of my hand and pulls me out the door. “It’s just around the block.”