Gabriel (Boys of Richland #4)

Chapter 1

CECILIA

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

Iwake to a dry mouth, a sluggish brain, and a pounding headache. God, how much did I have to drink last night? Just turning to the side, my face still mashed against the pillow, sends a spear of agony stabbing into my skull.

I let out a pain filled groan and a wave of nausea slams into me.

Fuck. I think I’m going to be sick. Sightlessly, I reach out to get my bearings and fumble to get myself in a seated position so I can make a run for the bathroom.

Or walk. I swallow the lump in my throat. Right now, I’ll settle for a crawl.

My fingers cling to the sheets beneath me and I shove up.

Wait a minute. I clench and unclench the material beneath my hands. That’s not right. It’s thick. Flannel. But that can’t be right. My sheets are cotton. Light and thin because I hate waking up in the middle of the night overheated.

This isn’t my bed.

Forcing my sticky eyelids open, I push the long tangled strands of my dark brown hair out of my face and take in my surroundings. Blinking hard against the hazy light that filters in through the window, I stare down at the very blue fabric beneath me. Definitely not mine.

Where the hell am I?

I scan the room. It’s decidedly a boy’s. Posters of half-naked girls leaning against muscle cars decorate the walls, intermixed with athletic trophies and sports paraphernalia.

Classy.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I scoot to the end, but have to pause when the room spins and everything along the edges of my vision blurs.

I’ve been hungover before, but never like this, where my entire body aches and I can’t remember why I’m in someone else’s bed.

Slowly, so as not to black out, I glance over my shoulder and exhale a breath of relief.

Not my bed, but whoever’s it is, they’re thankfully not in it with me. That’s something, at least.

I turn back around with a sigh of relief but it’s short lived when I look down and notice the state of my dress. It’s torn down the front, my chest spilling out of the ruined satin and lace. I clutch at the material, bringing it together, but it’s no use.

Something hard pokes me under my arm and I fumble around inside my dress, finding the edges of my bra. Untwisting the damn thing, I bring the front clasp together, satisfied at least that my boobs are no longer on display.

That’s when I see the bruises. I haven’t let myself think beyond the pounding in my head and the nausea twisting my gut, but now, holding my hands out in front of me, I take in the dark purple smudges that circle both of my wrists and forearms.

What the hell happened to me?

I stare at them in abject horror, rotating my arm to see all the way around. Are those… finger marks? I don’t like the scenarios my mind conjures up. The numerous ways I could have gotten bruises like this. None of them are good.

This is the stuff you see in movies. Not real life. Not to someone like me.

I need… I — it hits me and my chest heaves, breath seesawing in and out. This isn’t real. It’s a dream. A bad, bad dream.

I squeeze my eyes closed and clutch my hands to my chest. I remember going out with Kim and Joelle. The Zeta Pi party. Austin.

Bile climbs up my throat and I cover my mouth with my hand.

Thick, oily dread settles into my veins.

I really am going to be sick. I stumble to my feet but my legs give out beneath me and I crash to the hardwood floor.

My knees smart and tears pool in my eyes, but it’s not the pain that causes my emotions to well up inside me.

It’s memories of last night assaulting my mind that do that for me.

He… he… I squeeze my eyes closed. No! Tears spill over my cheeks and track down my face. When I open them again, I spot a waste bin beside the bedside table and lunge for it, barely making it before my stomach empties itself.

This isn’t happening.

Cool air hits the backs of my thighs, informing me that my chest isn’t the only part of me exposed.

I vomit again.

Please be a nightmare. A sick and twisted figment of my imagination. But it isn’t, and knowing that has a keening sound slipping past my lips. This is real. It’s sick and not okay, but what happened to me, it’s real.

My stomach is empty now, but I continue to dry heave. It’s like my body revolts against the revelation of what’s transpired.

Gut wrenching sobs wrack my body and I try my damndest to muffle them. I don’t know if anyone else is here. If Austin is still around.

What will he do if he finds me? I can’t wait to find out.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I begin the frantic search for my shoes. I don’t see them anyway, but manage to spot my phone.

On shaking limbs, I force myself to get up and retrieve it. My entire body is sore, like one big bruise has taken up residence on every inch of skin I possess. Grabbing my cell, I swipe my thumb over the screen. Nothing. I do it again.

Dammit. It’s dead.

Voices in the hall freeze me where I stand. I strain my ears. More than one and all male by the sounds of it. Every muscle in me locks up.

Footsteps move closer to the door. Shit. My fingers tighten around my phone, clenching it as if it’s my last lifeline.

What do I do?

I scan the room, searching for something, anything, I can use as a weapon but there’s nothing.

Footsteps pause on the other side of the door. The knob twists. I watch in horror as it turns three quarters of the way before stopping, almost like whoever stands on the other side knows I’m waiting.

On silent hinges, the door swings open to reveal Austin Holt. PacNorth’s star soccer player. Head of Zeta Pi fraternity. And the man I know will soon haunt my nightmares.

“You’re up.” His blue eyes take in my disheveled appearance, and he smirks. “We need to talk.”