Chapter 1

When I heard the retching and dry heaves begin, I knew it was about time.

When I heard a quavering voice moan, “Oh, God, my head!” I slowly made my way to her bedroom.

“Now for a little fun!” I thought to myself. Only if someone could see the smile on my face, they might have started to worry – not about me, but the person in the bedroom.

“Good Morning, Sunshine!” I yelled as I entered the room.

“Oh My God,” I heard the same wavering voice desperately cry out, “Please don’t scream.”

One of my co-workers, a very, very pretty 21-year-old named Christy, was trying to sit up in bed, while also trying to keep one hand on her stomach and at the same time use both hands to hold her head. Obviously, she wasn’t doing a very good job at any of those things.

I paused briefly to just watch her. I had suspected she was going to have a humdinger of a hangover, and was I ever right.

Her face, which was normally always tanned, was now very pale; she was struggling to open her eyes and trying to stare blearily around the room.

Her long blonde hair was in disarray, covering part of her face with the rest divided between her back and falling over her shoulders. I really couldn’t see her normal ice blue eyes, but I was pretty sure they were going to be bloodshot as well.

As I watched, she suddenly reached down beside the bed and grabbed the trash can I had left there just in case it was needed. I had been pretty sure she had already puked everything it was possible to puke out the night before, but didn’t want to take any chances.

The sounds of her dry heaves actually brought a smile to my face!

After a minute or two of heaving, with nothing coming out, she finally put the trash can down, again stared blearily around the room. As she struggled to focus her eyes, she finally recognized me.

“Bill? Is that you?” she asked in the same quavering tone. “What are you doing here?”

I walked over to the bed, then handed her a bottle of water and two pain pills.

“Before I answer that, or any other question, you are going to drink half this bottle, and take these two aspirin.”

Christy took the bottle, then started to say, “I usually take Tylen...”

“I don’t care what you usually take,” I interrupted in a voice which was not quite a shout, but still a lot louder than necessary, especially since I was standing less than a foot away from her.

She flinched and again tried to use both hands to hold her head while also trying to keep one hand on her stomach, while also trying not to drop the bottle of water.

I was loving it!

“Aspirin is going to work on a hangover faster than anything else,” I said in a much softer voice. “And as much alcohol as you must have put away last night, you need the water to replenish the fluids in your body.”

I waited until she had taken both aspirins and drank half the bottle before I said anything else.

“Now,” I began, “as far as asking what I am doing here, since this happens to be MY house and you are lying on one of MY beds, a much better question to ask is, to ask yourself why YOU are here, why your head feels like it is going to explode and why the inside of your mouth tastes like a kitty litter box.”

“Okay, Bill,” she answered, very shakily, “Why am I in your house, why does my head feel like it is going to explode and why does my mouth taste like a kitty litter box?”

“The why to all three is simple. Last night you got wasted, you got loaded, you got bombed,” I told her. “And now you are paying the price for it.”

Christy started to nod her head, grimaced, and then put both hands to her head. Apparently her stomach had finally settled down some.

“I vaguely remember drinking at T3 last night,” she said.

By way of explanation, the name of the sports bar just a few hundred feet from where Christy and I worked was named “Taco, Taco, Taco,” but those of us who consider themselves regulars always called it T3.

“But I don’t remember leaving, and I don’t remember you bringing me here,” she whispered.

I suppose I should explain that Bates Building Supply, where we both worked, closed at 9 pm, and usually those of us working late stayed for 45 minutes to an hour to get everything ready for the store to open the next morning. One of the requirements was, before the Closing Manager on Duty would actually leave the parking lot, he had to drive around to the back of the building and manually check to make sure every door was locked. This despite the fact he had already checked every door from the inside.

One of our “unofficial official policies” was to change the rule to “Closing Manager on Duty, or his duly assigned circle-the-building-and-check-the-doors designee”. I happened to be the duly assigned circle-the-building-and-check-the-doors designee the previous night.

This arrangement had never actually been approved by our corporate office, but we had found it was usually a lot easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

“I was circling the building to check the doors when I saw you sitting on the ground with your back leaning against the receiving office door,” I explained. “I guess you must have staggered there from T3.

“I jumped out of my truck, ran over to you and determined, among other things, you were (1) alive, (2) apparently unhurt, (3) passed out, and (4) smelled like a brewery ... and a few worse things.”

Christy started to shake her head again, moaned in pain, and continued to just sit up in bed.

“I carried you to my truck, put you inside and, since you were in no condition to tell me where you lived, brought you back to my place.

“About half-way here, you woke up and started puking all over the inside of my truck and all over yourself.”

Christy turned red.

“I puked all over your truck and all over myself?” she asked. Then realizing what she had said, lifted the covers up some and saw she was now wearing a t-shirt. Obviously not one of her t-shirts.

“But ... but how, I mean why am I wearing a t-shirt?” she asked.

“Well, I wasn’t about to put someone in one of my beds when the clothes they were wearing were covered in puke,” I explained. “So I undressed you and put that t-shirt on you first.”

Christy blushed even more.

“You undressed me?” she asked.

“Of course,” I answered, “I had to take those clothes off before I could wash them. I also dried your clothes, ironed your jeans and blouse, and even folded them for you.

“They are over there on top of the dresser,” I pointed, “Along with your bra and panties.”

When I casually added that last part, Christy again lifted the covers, only this time she also raised the t-shirt part way.

When she realized she was totally naked, other than the t-shirt, she blushed ever redder.

“Why?” she asked, “did you have to take my bra and panties off?”

“I already told you,” I tried to explain in my most patient, talking-to-a-child voice, “you were covered in puke. Not just your clothes, but your arms, chest and neck. You even had puke in your hair. I wasn’t going to let you in my bed while covered in puke.

“I had to take your bra and panties off before I could give you a bath.”

I honestly did not know a person could turn such a shade of red. She far surpassed Coke red, Marlboro red, or beet red.

“You ... you ... you ... gave me ... gave me ... a ... a ... a ... b-b-b-bath?” she asked in a horrified tone.

“Well, yes,” I answered. “I had to.”

“Bill,” she asked, almost whispering, “did I? Did we? Did you?”

“No,” I stated. “I am not going to take advantage of a drunken woman. Even though you kept begging me to do just that.”

How many shades of red can one person actually turn?

“I was ... was begging...” she whispered.

“You actually kept saying you wanted me to, in your words, ‘Screw my brains out’,” I told her. “And you kept repeating that you were just as good in bed as ‘that big boobed bleached blonde bitch Betty Barnes.’”

There went another shade of red.

“What ... what ... what did you do?” she finally whispered.

“Nothing, just like I told you,” I replied. “I don’t take advantage of drunken women. Although I will admit it became a little harder to ignore after you grabbed my penis and offered to give me a blow job.”

I think her hands were even turning red.

“I offered to give you a blow job?” she asked in an even more horrified tone.

“I think your exact words were, ‘I can give just as good a blow job as that big boobed bleached blonde bitch Betty Barnes.’ I didn’t want to get vomit all over my clothes while giving you a shower, so I had taken off my pants and shirt so I was only wearing boxers and a t-shirt.

“You grabbed me, then gasped and said I was a lot bigger than Tim.”

“What did you do then?” she asked, barely breathing.

“When it became apparent I wasn’t going to do anything to you,” I said, “you offered to let me do something you said you had always refused with Tim. That is, you offered to let me take you in the ass.”

I was now really becoming concerned with how red she was turning.

“Oh, God,” she almost cried out and tried to shake her head again, wincing and grabbing her head with both hands. “Tim ... Tim was always asking ... asking if we could do ... well, that, but I refused. I ... I can’t believe I offered to do it with you.”

“I had to threaten you with a severe spanking if you didn’t stop,” I added, “then you told me you had never tried spanking but had read “Fifty Shades of Gray,” and was willing to give it a try.”

Do I need to call the paramedics about how red she is turning?

“What happened then?” she whispered.

“Well, I finally finished washing you, then washed your hair. By now you were becoming pretty sleepy so you were a lot easier to handle.

“Anyway, I finally got you clean, carried you in here and found an old t-shirt of mine and put it on you and put you to bed.

“Oh, by the way,” I said, with a big, big smile, “Tim is an absolute idiot for leaving you for Betty! I think your boobs and butt are both beautiful.”

Christy couldn’t have had much blood left in her inner body! It had all been transferred to her skin.

“I ... I told you what he said?” she asked, then kind of trailed off.

“About you being president of the Itty-Bitty-Titty Club and your ass looks more like a boy’s?” I responded and couldn’t keep the glee out of my voice. “You might have mentioned it one or two times ... that is one or two dozen times.

“Of course you also tried to get me to have sex with you that often and offered to give me a blow job nearly as many times. By comparison, you only offered to have anal sex three or four times.”

Christy just moaned a couple of times before being finally able to speak.

“If ... if you are trying to be sympathetic or make me feel better,” Christy said, and this time I could hear a little fire in her voice, “you are completely failing.”

What happened next was totally unplanned, but her words about being “sympathetic” or “making her feel better,” pushed me over the edge.

“I am NOT trying to be the least bit sympathetic, you damn fool,” I yelled at her, and she actually jumped and slid a couple of feet away from me on the bed. You could see the fear on her face.

I had to turn around and walk away while I tried to control myself.

“Look,” I said, “that last was uncalled for. I meant it when I said I am not trying to be sympathetic, but I apologize for yelling like I just did.

“I am trying to prove something to you,” I added.

“I have been trying to show you what could happen ... what probably would have happened if someone else found you passed out.

“If you want to act like a damn fool idiot, I suppose it is your business. And getting falling down, passing out drunk at a bar is one hell of a sure way of showing the world you don’t care what happens to you. Or who has sex with you! Or how many men have sex with you! That last night you were being a damn fool idiot.”

“But I sure as hell will not just stand by when someone I ... when someone I care about ... acts like a two-year old whose favorite toy had been taken away from her.”

By now Christy is crying and has snot dripping out of her nose.

“Don’t move,” I ordered, and walked into the adjoining bathroom. I wet a washcloth and brought it, along with some tissues, back and told her to wash her face, then blow her nose.

“I understand you are trying to teach me a lesson Bill,” she finally said, after she had stopped crying. “But why are you being so mean about it? We’ve always been friends.”

“I don’t think you DO understand, Christy,” I finally said, and Christy flinched again from hearing the anger in my voice. “I had been hoping I wouldn’t have to show you this, but I think this may be the only way to get anything through that damn thick skull of yours.”

I walked over and opened a dresser drawer, and withdrew an old newspaper clipping I had placed there earlier in case I needed it.

When I walked over to the bed, Christy again flinched and acted like she was going to move further away from me.

“Can you ... will you read this for me?” I asked her, very softly, handing her the clipping. “Please read it out loud.”

Christy took the newspaper clipping, then began reading:

“After one of the largest searches in North Carolina history, officials have confirmed they found the mutilated and badly burned body of 21-year-old Dorothy McAll...”

Christy stopped about half-way through the last name and looked at me. She later told me I had turned white as a sheet.

“My sister,” I said in answer to her unspoken question. “My baby sister.

“Please start over,” I softly asked.

“After one of the largest searches in North Carolina history, officials have confirmed they found the mutilated and badly burned body of 21-year-old Dorothy McAllister early this morning in the Uhwarrie National Forest. McAllister was last seen leaving a bar in the Lexington, N.C., area with two men, three days earlier.”

“That’s enough,” I said, very softly.