Chapter Ten
M y head pounds, this awful throbbing that starts at my temples and bands across my forehead, and my stomach is rolling. I groan as I flip onto my back, my eyes squeezed closed.
It takes me a moment to realize the bed I’m on feels different to what I’m used to and when I force one eye open, I see the ceiling and a lampshade that’s definitely not mine. Panic consumes me so quickly, the sickness and headache are forgotten. I bolt up in the bed, eyes wide only to freeze when I see who is across the room, still sleeping and only in a towel.
River Sinclair is a work of art.
I stare at him from the bed, his head resting in his palm, and he’s stretched out on the chair, the towel knotted at the front. There’s bruising on the side of his face, deep shadows that look fresh and a small cut on his brow.
The plains of his abdomen are carved as if from marble, the ridges and valleys so defined I want to trace them with my fingertip. Hair trails from his naval to beneath the knot of his towel, framed on either side by the deep lines of his hips. And then there’s the scars, the flesh mottled, discolored and uneven, it travels down over his pec and a little onto his ribcage and then up over his shoulder, crawling up the side of his neck and down his entire arm.
I’m still staring when his sleepy voice fills the silence, “Enjoying the view, princess?”
My eyes jump to his, still heavy with sleep but they’ve crinkled at the side, the amusement lighting them up.
“I wasn’t,” I lie, “I mean I was, but I wasn’t like, looking .”
“Yeah you were,” He stretches out like a cat in the chair before he stands, adjusting the towel on his hips. I drop my eyes down wondering if he’s wearing anything underneath, and the thought stirs something hot, deep in my stomach, it’s enough to make my thighs ache and body react in a way it’s never done before.
His feet pad across the threadbare carpet before he places his knees on the bed and leans down close, curling his finger under my chin. I’m pretty sure my eyes are as wide as saucers right now and my cheeks as red as that punch from last night.
“How do you feel?” He asks, eyes bouncing between mine.
The headache thumps once at my temples, reminding me that it’s there, “Not great. What happened to your face?”
He purses his lips, “I’ll get you some water and breakfast. Wait here.”
His weight lifts from the mattress and then he’s gone, ignoring my question and disappears through a door, but I can still hear him as he opens and closes cupboards. I fidget with the sheets between my fingers, now alone I can look more freely.
Is this where he lives? There’s hardly any space here, the bed I’m on takes up most of the room with a two-drawer table to the side. The chair is the only other piece of furniture in here, and I can see the bathroom, a small box room with a shower, toilet and basin with not much space to move at all. I assume where he just disappeared into is the kitchen, but I have no idea exactly where we are. Are we in some part of town? Still close to the garage and track?
Fuck, the track. The punch…
I press my hand to my queasy stomach, feeling it churn with the memory. I was fine one minute and then the next I wasn’t, it was like the alcohol was a wall and I walked headfirst into it.
River returns, the towel now a little bit lower than where it was before, showing where that trail of hair leads to. And as I assumed previously, he’s not wearing underwear.
“Here,” He hands me a bottle of water, condensation making the plastic cold and wet, which I accept, opening it immediately.
I start chugging down the water like I haven’t had hydration in days.
“Easy,” River wraps his hand around the bottle, “Give your stomach a chance, you emptied it last night and you need to keep that water down.”
My eyes widen, “What do you mean?”
He cringes, “You vomited.”
“Oh god!” I cover my face with my hands, “How bad was it?”
“It wasn’t your fault, Marly,” He says gently, “I’m guessing you didn’t know the punch was spiked.”
I shake my head, face still hidden behind my palms.
“Don’t drink much?” He asks, his weight pressing down on the mattress, enough that I have to catch myself from falling into him.
“I don’t drink ever,” I sigh, dropping my hands into my lap.
“She should have warned you,” He pushes the plate of food toward me, “It won’t happen again.”
“She didn’t like me,” I shrug, picking up a piece of fruit from the plate, “I’m not entirely sure why.”
“Rach doesn’t like anyone,” River picks up a grape and pops it into his mouth before he stands.
I watch him move around the small space, gathering a pair of worn denim Levis and a white tank. And then he slips the jeans up his legs, no underwear and drops the towel. The button is still undone, showing parts of him I have no right to see.
I almost choke on the damn fruit in my mouth but quickly follow it down with some water.
“Eat,” His voice is filled with amusement, and I look up to see his back retreating into the bathroom.
I pick at the fruit on the plate and then nibble on the buttery toast before I finish the water, my stomach now settled some, but the headache still knocks at my temples. With enough to eat, I push myself back until I’m leaning on the wall and start to rub at my head, trying to relieve the ache.
I hear River come back into the room, “Go back to sleep, princess.”
“I should probably go,” I whisper.
“You got somewhere to be?”
I didn’t. I have no one to report to, no one expecting me back or to be pretty for. I could go back to sleep; I could sleep the whole day away if I wanted to.
“Well no.”
“Then sleep,” He cocks his head to the side, watching me, “Not going to lie, my shirt looks good on you.”
My chin dips as I look down at the Sinclair Motors branded tee covering me but before I can ask him how it ended up on me, he’s leaving the room again.
“Go to sleep, Marly. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”
With the silence and my thoughts my only company, I decide to lay down. The mattress is comfortable, and the sheets have that smokey, earthy scent that I’ve experienced in the few times I’ve been around River, and realized is inherently him. I pull the sheets up to my chin and snuggle into the pillows, the headache making it hard to keep my eyes open.
But sleep doesn’t claim me.
Instead this intense need does. My mind is plagued by images of him in that towel, and then him in his jeans, the button undone. I squirm against the sheets, the heat flowing through me making it hard to breathe. I’ve never felt this before, not like this.
Pressing my thighs together, I toss on the bed, turning to face the wall and bury my face into the pillow. Is this normal?
I feel wet, hot even, and god, I ache. It makes me want to do something stupid, like go find him and tell him to make it stop.
But of course I won’t, I can’t. This is a me problem and I doubt he’ll want anything to do with it.
Not like I’d tell him anyway.
It’s so ridiculous, I feel so damn stupid.
But god, this ache won’t go away.
I feel like I toss and I turn in his bed for hours and at some point the headache abates. I just wish this need would too.