I pull out my cell phone to call Hamilton for a ride as we planned.
“Mady!” Hamilton yells in greeting. Without pulling the receiver from his mouth he slurs to the men. “Guys, she’s on the phone. Stop. Stop. Troy it’s your turn.” I can’t make out Troy’s words. “Bull shit!” Hamilton yells. “I call bull shit!”
Sensing something is up, I signal for the ladies to be quiet by putting my index finger over my lips and set my phone to speaker. The girls gather around to hear better.
“Hamilton, you suck!” Troy yells.
“Shut up and chug,” Latham slurs loudly.
“Drink. Drink. Drink.” The men chant for Troy.
Next, we hear Hamilton say, “Two fours.”
Then Troy yells, “Bull shit.”
Hamilton attempts to taunt while slurring, “Are you sure Troy, you’ll have to drink if you’re wrong.”
“I call bull shit!” Troy reiterates.
Hamilton groans then seems to chug a drink while the other three chant. The ladies begin to giggle around me. We haven’t heard Winston, but it sounds like the other guys are drunk.
“Hamilton,” I call with a raised voice. We hear the game continue as if I am not on his phone. “Hamilton!” Still nothing from his end, so I hang up.
“Can someone give me a ride over to Troy and Bethany’s house? I think I need to drive Hamilton home tonight.”
Savannah offers to drive me, but Bethany chimes in. “Why don’t the three of you ride with me? I bet Adrian will need to drive Winston and Salem you’ll need to drive Latham. If I take you, then you’ll only have your guy’s car to drive.” It makes perfect sense. We say our goodbyes to Savannah with promises to see her at the wedding before we pile into Bethany’s minivan for the short drive to her house.
Although the phone call led us to believe all four guys were drunk, we were not prepared for the mess and how drunk they all are. Upon opening the door, the strong stench of beer greets us. Bethany’s morning sickness hits—she darts to the bathroom with her hand over her mouth.
We watch from the doorway for a moment as they continue their game totally unaware we stand nearby. Winston sits with a stiff back as his head wobbles from side to side and he attempts to focus on his cards. I’ve never witnessed Winston and Hamilton in this state of inebriation. Troy and Latham often let go on the weekends, but the other two usually only enjoy a beer or two. Latham leans his head on his hand with his elbow on the table. He struggles to keep his eyes open. While his cards lie on the table face-up in front of him for everyone to see.
We are standing behind Troy, but from his raised voice, animated actions, and mispronunciation of several words, it is clear he is drunk. Hamilton attempts to focus on the game and doesn’t see us watching straight across from him.
“Hey guys,” I greet.
“Hamilton look, Madison is here!” Latham yells in his drunken state.
Hamilton looks at me, then picks up his cell phone. “Madison are you still there?”
I decide to play along by walking behind his chair. “Hi, Hamilton.” I pretend to still be on his phone.
“Did you need something?”
I roll my eyes towards Adrian. “Hamilton can you come pick me up? Our party is over.”
“Sure,” he lays his phone on the corner of the table. “Guys I gotta go. Madison needs a ride.” Laughter erupts. Hamilton rises from his chair and trips over its leg. I grab his shoulders in an attempt to help him find his balance.
“Thanks Madison,” he slurs.
I witness the moment he makes the connection. He looks at his phone then at me and back.
“You don’t need a ride,” he announces.
“No, but it seems you do,” Adrian answers for me, trying to stifle her laughter.
Winston realizes they are all busted. “It’s Troy’s twentieth birthday so we decided to play a drinking game.” He speaks to Adrian as if she is his mother and just caught him drinking.
Latham extends his arms to Salem. “We ran out of beer, so we had to use Jack Daniels.” He points to the open bottle on the table.
Ah-ha that explains how lit they are. Stupid boys, I’ve told them several times. ‘Beer before liquor never sicker. Liquor before beer in the clear.’ Seems they will be bent over the toilet tonight. It amazes me in just over three hours, Hamilton and Latham forgot they needed to pick us up and drive home tonight. Winston drove himself over here, too. I’m even more glad we chose not to drink alcohol at our party tonight. Bethany and Adrian might have driven all of us home tonight if we had.
At this point we attempt to get three sets of keys from the guys. Bethany finds everyone’s keys by the back door on a table and passes them to us.
I laugh so hard as I attempt to load Hamilton in his truck that I nearly pee my pants. It’s like trying to help a sleepy four-year-old to bed, but he’s over six-feet-tall and over two-hundred pounds. I roll his window down and encourage him to keep his nose near the fresh air as I drive. I don’t want to clean up vomit from his truck tonight.
He’s snoring when I park in Memphis’ driveway. I shake him awake and remind him his mother is asleep, so we must be quiet on our way to his room. He tries his best to walk, but still leans heavily on my shoulders. His heavy boots bump the door frame on our way inside. I contemplate removing the boots in the mudroom or upstairs—I decide in his room will be easier. Much too loudly we make our way through the kitchen then up to his room.
He falls onto his bed placing his arm over his eyes. I shut off the overhead light and switch on the bedside lamp. Where to begin? I untie and slip off his heavy work boots. As I tuck them on the floor of his closet, he makes a groan before darting to the attached bathroom. I knew this would happen.
I place a wet washcloth on the back of his neck, then take a seat on the edge of the tub and rub his back while he heaves the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He’s not quiet while puking. I cringe knowing Memphis surely hears him. I decide to peek into the hallway to let her know he is okay. I do not find her, and her door is still closed, so instead I fetch water and pain relievers from the kitchen.
When I return, Hamilton is sprawled out on the tile floor with the washcloth over his eyes. “Ham, I have some water if you want a sip.” He groans rolls to his side and proceeds to vomit on himself and the bathroom floor. Great, now I will get the honor of cleaning his bathroom. I do my best to assist him toward the toilet just in time for the next round. After fifteen minutes his stomach seems to calm. With a fresh washcloth I wipe his mouth and chin.
“Ham, I need you to take a shower. You have puke all over and it might help you feel better.” He doesn’t respond.
I struggle to pull his t-shirt covered in puke over his head and in doing so I realize it’s now in his hair. I try not to gag as I ask him to stand and remove his jeans while I turn the shower on. He struggles what seems like an eternity with his belt. It is clear I need to strip him the rest of the way. He’s sick—I can do this. My fingers fumble nervously before successfully unhooking the belt then button on his jeans. I’m acutely aware of my knuckles brushing against his dark happy trail in the process.
My stomach somersaults as thoughts of slipping my hand further inside his jeans enter my mind. I imagine the thick, heavy weight of him in my palm, his reaction to my touch, to the movement of my hand…
“Mady, if you don’t stop worrying your lip I’ll have to rescue it myself,” his husky whisper draws my eyes up his contoured abdominals then chest to his heavy-lidded brown eyes.
He’s drunk. He’s sick. Snap out of this Madison. You can’t go there tonight.
Hamilton’s fingers rest under my chin while his thumb pulls my lower lip away from my incisors. I wasn’t aware of biting it.
“The shower is ready. Get undressed and hop in.”
I sigh as he nearly falls over while attempting to remove his jeans. Placing my hands on the waistband of his pants I assist him in sliding them down his thighs. I urge him to put his hand on the wall before he steps out of each leg and his socks. I close my eyes tight as I stand back up.
“Okay, you in the shower,” I order attempting to control my hormones. My body is alive. I fight the urge to press myself against him, to take him in my mouth, to seek a release for both of us. Though I try hard not to, my eyes glance down and my breath catches at the sight of his erect cock. Needing to remove myself from the room and my thoughts, I turn him toward the shower with my hands on his shoulders. I open the glass door and guide him through. When he places his two palms on the tiles under the nozzle allowing the spray to pummel his neck and back, I flee.
I squeal when Memphis scares me in the hallway on my way to my room. “Everything okay?”
I don’t know if she means with me or Hamilton. “Hamilton drank too much, so I drove us home. He’s been sick and now he’s in the shower.”
Memphis fails to hide her smile. It’s clear she knows why I was darting from his bedroom. “You need anything?” When I can only shake my head, she bids me goodnight and returns to her room shutting the door behind her.
I hear the shower shut off. Crap! I didn’t get the chance to regroup in my room. I debate turning in or checking on Hamilton one more time. I reluctantly return to assist him in finding his bed—I won’t sleep until I know he is safe in his bed.
Peeking through the bathroom door. The dripping wet hunk of a man that is Hamilton Armstrong greets me. His hands are planted on the counter, a towel is secured low around his waist, and his eyes look to me in the large mirror.
“Feel better?”
He nods before squeezing toothpaste on his toothbrush then scrubbing his teeth and tongue. I lean in the door frame transfixed as his back, shoulders, and arms flex while he brushes. Hamilton clears his throat drawing my attention to his reflection. He smirks, yes, smirks at me. It seems he does feel better.
“Alright, I’m going to turn in. Please take the pain relievers and drink the entire water I put by the bed. Goodnight.” I turn and head to his sister’s room.