Designated Driver (Calum Hood)
Blurb: You and your friend decide to go out to get your mind off a not-so-great week. When your planned DD falls through, her boyfriend, Calum, steps in.
Warnings: Alcohol; vomit; language; Calum Hood being hot; somewhere between fluff and yearning; abandonment by best friends
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The room’s spinning and the music that thumps through the speakers adds to the headache growing at the back of your head. That doesn’t stop you from throwing back another shot of tequila when it’s handed to you. Your friend Claire laughs when you gag and tosses back her shot, her face not even scrunching up in disgust. You wonder how long you have to be drinking before you stop being a little bitch about tequila with no chaser.
“Bar’s about to close. One more drink?” she asks, tossing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in close. The smell of beer permeates off her breath. You can't imagine yours smells much better either with the assortment of mixed drinks and shots you've downed way too quick. When Claire called you out for a night out post breakup with her most recent douchebag, you agreed to getting shit-faced. You'd like to say it was out of friendship, but in reality, you just needed a reason that wouldn't be concerning to your best-friend to get plastered.
“Sure,” you say. You know you shouldn’t drink more, but the fire in your belly and the warmth spreading through your extremities feels nice. Not being anxious for once feels good. If several shots brings this, one more can’t hurt.
Claire smiles with her perfectly straight teeth.
“That’s my girl. Call Chelsea. Let her know we’ll need her here soon.”
You nod and pull out your phone as Claire makes her way back to the bar, garnering several looks from guys and girls alike as she moves through the dwindling crowd. The numbers blur together on your phone, but you can make out 1:35am. You know you're going to regret this in the morning; you're not 21 anymore and haven't been for a while. You dial Chelsea’s number and wait for what feels like an eternity for her to pick up. Your best friend only agreed for you both to go out without her if you promised to call her for a ride home.
The heat in your stomach flares when you realize it's not Chelsea’s voice over the phone.
“Chelsea?” you ask, stupidly. You know who it is.
“No, she’s not here. It’s Calum”
Bile raises up in your throat but you force it back down. You don’t interact with her boyfriend much, and that's on purpose. He’s kind from what she's shared and treats her well, very attractive, but quiet. You know he's in music. Chelsea’s always been into the more reserved, artistic and brooding types. Attractive types, Australian types, insanely hot types. This is why you stay away; you don't need to be having the hots for your best friend's boyfriend and you always feel ashamed for even admitting that secret desire to yourself.
“Oh, she said she’d pick up me and Claire from the bar,” you say, not bothering to ask why Chelsea isn't with him but her phone is.
“I know. I’ll just come get you,” he says through an exasperated sigh.
“You don’t need to do that,” you say, doing whatever you can to make sure you do not have to interact with Calum in this state. It is hard enough dealing with his accent when you're sober. “We can get an Uber or something.”
"Hey," Calum says and you stop speaking. He says your name quietly after getting your attention, and you hate the way you like it. He’s never addressed you directly by name and you don’t appreciate the feeling it elicits in your lower stomach. “You’re slurring your words. I’m not going to let you get in a car with a stranger. I’ll be there to get you both.”
He hangs up the phone before you have time to protest. Sighing, you shove your phone into the pocket of your skirt. You look to the bar and find Claire talking with a man. He’s handsome in an almost too perfect way with blonde curls and a broad, slightly-muscular body. By her body language, Claire is really into him. She leans into his space and laughs, running her hand down his arm. You head toward the bar, trying not to show that you are having difficulty walking correctly, in an attempt to break up the pair.
“Hey, babes,” you say. She turns to you and you can tell by the look in her eyes you're too late. She's fully pulled this man and she plans to reap her rewards.
“Hey, this is Luke,” she chirps. “I’m going home with him.”
You look over the man in question. He looks unoffending, but you're never one to give strange men at the bar the benefit of the doubt. He offers his hand out to you, trying to be charming. You look down at his outstretched hand like it's something dead and don’t take it. The man, Luke, takes the hint and drops his hand.
“Calum is coming to get us,” you say. “He’ll be here soon." You try to give her a look that says she’s not leaving with a random stranger. Claire is stubborn, though, and she’s never been one to listen to you. She has a habit of going home with random bar guys, thus her trail of douchebags. You've tried literally tackling her before to no avail, and screaming in the face of these random men, but Claire does what she wants. And if you're honest, you're doing your best just to hold everything together, right now. The room has been at an odd tilt the last twenty minutes, and you've been trying to ignore it. Now, there's a slow spin and it's not helping your headache.
“I’ll be fine! Here’s your drink,” she says, handing you a tall glass of something you don’t remember ordering. “We’re heading out.”
You try to reach for her wrist to stop her, but she dodges it. She grabs Luke’s hand and they leave the bar, heading out the front door. You watch after them and the way their bodies wobble in your vision. You settle on sinking into the available seat at the bar and accepting your defeat. Why did you expect anything else from her? There’s a reason Chelsea is your best friend and not Claire. Chelsea wouldn’t abandon you at nearly two in the morning for some potential lay. Okay, so maybe Chelsea did kind of abandon you, but that's out of character. Your best friend, you've noticed, hasn't been herself much at all lately. When you've attempted to press it, she just avoids any in-depth conversation all-together.
You sit at the bar and don't touch the drink Claire left you. You know that if you take another sip of alcohol, you may not be able to walk out the bar when Calum arrives. Your phone buzzes and and you look down. The screen seems to pulsate through the haze of the alcohol. It’s an unknown number and your eyes take a moment to focus before you can make out the text.
You do your best to gather yourself in order to feign some semblance of sobriety, but when you stand again and struggle to balance, you know you're fucked. You leave through the front door and topple into a man standing by the entrance.
"Fuck," you swear. "I'm sorry," you begin, but stop when you process that it's your ride.
"You're fucking hammered," Calum says, his darks eyes looking down at you, crease between his furrowed eyebrows.
"No shit," you say, a little too sarcastic under the influence of what you are certain to be three times the legal limit.
You look up into Calum's face and you blame the alcohol when you are shocked at how good he looks, tonight. His bleached hair has grown out a bit from the last time you've seen him, and the dark of his natural hair peaks out from the crown of his head. The smile lines by his eyes are prominent, even though you've rarely seen him smile. You want to trace them with your finger and see the way his mouth upturns.
So you can see just fine when checking out your best friend's boyfriend, but not when you need to walk across the fucking bar? You try to check yourself, but don't do a great job.
"Where's Claire?" Calum asks.
"Left me," you say, but from the way Calum watches you, you know it's the wrong answer.
"What do you mean she left you?" he asks, his arms going around you to guide you to what you guess is his car. You don't object; the inebriation is only worsening and at this point, you're struggling to just answer his questions, nonetheless walk upright. His hands are firm on your elbows as he lowers you into his car. It smells faintly like cigarettes and his cologne, you notice.
"Hot guy. Typical," you say.
"Did you try to stop her?" Calum asks, the disappointment evident in his voice even now, and you do your best to not laugh. You know all the alcohol will come up if you do.
"Nawh-- told her to use protection. Course I fuckin' did," you say. "Clearly not in the state to fuckin' hold her back."
Calum lets out a dry laugh, and half of you want to know what a real one sounds like. The other part of you wants you to stop having thoughts about your best friend's boyfriend. It doesn't help when he reaches across you to buckle you in. The back of his hand grazes over your side as he does so, and it feels nice. You throw your head back on the headrest and close your eyes, not wanting to watch him.
"I'm gonna' get you home," Calum says once he gets into the driver's seat. "You still live off the highway?" he asks.
You nod a yes, but the motion makes you feel like you're going to be sick. Then, a rational thought comes in.
"Just take me to Chelsea's," you say.
"Can't do that," Calum replies, short. He fumbles around in his backseat as he reaches behind you. He hands you a garbage bag, forcing it into your hands. "If you feel like you're gonna' hurl, please just don't do it in my fucking car."
"Sir yes sir," you say, sending a weak salute, struggling to keep your eyes open. "Why can't you take me to Chelsea's?" Your question is quiet, but you know Calum hears you because he goes silent as well. A norm from your experience with him.
Calum throws the car into drive, and a wave of nausea crashes over you. Do not vomit in this hot guy's car. Do not vomit. You repeat the mantra over and over in your head and breathe in through your nose, hoping to fight the sensation off.
"Not together anymore," Calum says. No further explanation. If you weren't doing everything you could to not be sick, you'd be more shocked. At least, you would ask what happened and why he still had her phone, you'd like to think. But you don't say anything, just focus on the way the air moves through your body as you breathe.
Calum doesn't tell you he's rolling down his car windows, but he does and you're immediately thankful for the rush of cool night air that floods into his vehicle. It gives you enough reprieve for him to effectively get you home without you messing up his leather interior.
He slides his car into the space outside your apartment, and the bile you've been withholding coats your mouth. Clumsily throwing the door of his car open, you stagger to the bushes by the entrance of your apartment and let go of the poisonous contents of your stomach. It's disgusting and the taste of the alcohol the second time feels like a horrible punishment. You hair falls down around your face as you continue to be sick, but you can't do much more than hold yourself upright by the door.
You become aware of hands moving the hair away from your face and holding it securely at the nape of your neck. If you weren't so fucking sick, you would fight the way you notice the warmth of his skin radiating against the post-vomit chills. But you let Calum hold back your hair so you don't completely embarrass yourself, at least, not more than you already have.
"I'm sorry," you gasp. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
Calum doesn't acknowledge your apology, just focuses on the task at hand.
"Where's your key?" he asks.
"Pocket," you rasp out. You realize your hands are dirty with your previous sins. "Can you get it?" you ask.
You think Calum pauses before he reaches into your front right pocket and fishes out the key, but time is blending together in a confusing mess at this point. He graciously leaves the apartment lights off, turning on his phone light only as he guides you inside.
"You've dealt with a lot of drunks," you say.
"You can say that." He doesn't elaborate but sets your key on your kitchen counter. "You need a shower," he says. You realize you must reek of the bar, vomit, and tequila.
"Don't think I can," you say.
"I'll help you," Calum says. Not an ask, not an offer, but matter-of-fact. You feel a flush come to your body and you hope he takes it as an alcohol-induced hot flash.
"I'm not getting naked in front of you--"
"I'm not asking you to, Sweetheart," Calum says. It's the first time all night you've heard him speak to you with true condescension and it shuts you up.
Your face must have betrayed your true emotions, because Calum's next words are softer, like he regrets how he answered you.
"I'm gonna' get you in the shower. I know how to make sure you still have your privacy," he says.
Again, his hands are on you, and even though you don't know how or why things ended between him and Chelsea, you feel less bad about the way you notice his hands envelope your arms. The way he guides you around like it's no issue to fully handle you makes you feel safer than you'd believe you would.
The next thing you process is the sound of running water and the flash of his phone light against your bathroom mirror. It pierces your eyes.
"I'm going to turn out my light," Calum says, nudging you to stand by the shower. Your hand goes to steady yourself against the wall and you can feel that all you have to do is step up over the lip of the shower. Somewhere along the way, you lost your shoes. "You'll take your clothes off in the dark and step into the shower. I'll turn the light back on when you're in, okay?"
The light switches off and you are immersed in darkness. You don't move for a moment, a bit dazed.
"Get out of your clothes," Calum says.
The way he gently commands you knocks you out of the momentary stupor and you strip, pulling your shirt over your head. Grateful that you can unbutton your skirt and let it drop around your legs. You unclasp your bra and unstealthily shove down your underwear. The only sound in the room is the running of the water and both of your quiet breathing. You try not to think of the way you are completely exposed. You try not to think about how the first time you met Calum, he was shirtless and sweaty after the gym. You do your best not to think of any of that except carefully edging yourself into the shower.
The water is cooler than you expect and you hiss, the shock to your skin immediately sobering you up a bit.
"Sorry, it's gotta be cold," Calum says. "I can't leave you alone this drunk."
You nod under the stream of water, realize he can't see you, and mutter out an, "It's okay." You let the cold water crash over you and you haphazardly run the frigid water over your limbs and face. You find the body wash and rub the gel in your hands until it foams, cleansing your body of all the smells you don't want to carry with you to bed. You stick your face directly under the stream and open your mouth, let the coolness rest on your tongue, then swish it around. You spit the water into the shower, the acrid taste lingering on your tongue already improved.
You feel better than you did before and decide that once you get some water and headache meds into you, you'll be good. That, and maybe twelve hours of sleep.
"Okay, I'm ready to get out," you say, grateful that you feel more present.
Calum's tattooed hand reaches into the shower and turns off the water, and he manifests a towel into his hands. "Take this and I'll help you. There's no need in you strugglin' to get changed when you're just going to bed," Calum says.
You have no reason to argue against that, not wanting to tell him you sleep naked most times, anyway; so you take the towel and wrap it around your body, making sure it's secure.
Swiping open the shower curtain, you're met with Calum. You're angry that you can't even blame the alcohol for how attractive you found him before. As you're sobering, you notice even more the way he looks in the dim light -- his plump lips pursed into what looks like permanent disdain. His eyes go over you once, quickly. So quick you question if he even really looked.
"Good. I've got tablets and water and a granola bar by your bed. Do you think you can walk, this time?"
You try putting weight on your right foot as you step forward, and wobble a bit, but ascertain that you can at least walk.
"I'll let you do it yourself," he says without letting you respond. "But I'm going to be right next to you. Don't need you getting all this way to fuckin' bust your ass in your own apartment."
You nod, not immediately feeling sick on doing so. As you exit the bathroom, you see that he's kept the lights off, only turning on the dimmest lamp you have by the entrance of your bedroom. Your bedsheets are pulled back so they're easy for you to slide into. Chelsea had said once that her favorite thing about Calum was that he was so thoughtful. She was right.
So why are they not together anymore?
As you settle in, you watch Calum assessing you and the situation. He seems pleased when you take a few bites of the granola bar and throw back the ibruprofen. You sip the water he left you.
Your eyes go directly to his at his words and for the first time tonight, you notice the slightest blush creep to his cheeks. You ignore the warmth on his face and the one growing in your stomach. Calum clears his throat and changes the subject.
"You need to get rest. I'll be back tomorrow," he says.
"Why?" unsure as to why he'd have to come to your place at all.
"You've got a deadbolt," he says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. You just stare at him, still needing an explanation.
"You need to stay in bed but I'm not leaving you in here with an unlocked door. I'll return your key to you tomorrow. I've got your number now."
You don't argue. You want to know what happened between him and Chelsea. That's certainly a subject you can't broach now.
"Okay," Calum says, his eyes softer on you this time. "Goodnight."
You hear Calum turn off the lamp by your door, make his way through your apartment, and lock the deadbolt. You decide you're going to have to thank him for taking care of you when it clearly wasn't his job. But that can wait, because you settle into your bed and let the exhaustion settle around you.
Before sleep takes you, you swear you can still faintly smell the scent of cigarettes and cologne.
