CHAPTER THREE
Emery
I’m dying.
That’s my first thought. My only thought.
My head is splitting. It’s a sharp, relentless pain pounding behind my eyes like something’s trying to claw its way out of my skull. My stomach pitches violently, and I barely have enough time to register the unfamiliar ceiling above me before I lurch off the bed.
I gag.
And thank God there’s a trash can beside me because everything in my stomach comes up.
Every damn thing including what feels like my soul as I retch until there’s nothing left.
My body shudders with each dry heave. Tears stream down my face, partly from effort, and partly from this fear tickling the back of my neck.
This isn’t my bed.
The thought lands hard.
My heart slams into my ribs as I push myself upright, breathing through the nausea. Where am I? How’d I get here?
Clothes. My clothes are on. I pat down my body as if that’s going to validate that they’ve been on since I stepped into them yesterday.
But they’re there and on and oh my God, I’m going to be sick again.
I cough when I’m finished and take the chance to look at my surroundings. The room is dim and the curtains are drawn tight. The walls are neutral, the dresser is generic, the digital alarm clock reads 5:32 in the morning . . . and there’s hotel art I don’t recognize.
Hotel.
Panic spikes.
I look around fast and frantic. My purse is on the nightstand, my phone beside it. Both are untouched. Just like my clothes.
Okay.
Okay.
That matters.
My head throbs and when I try to stand up, it pounds even harder. The room tilts slightly like it’s testing my stomach to see if it can handle the movement. I press my palm to my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut.
Think, Emery. Think.
You went out for a drink.
The bar.
Wood everywhere. Red wine. The nice bartender. Trish on the phone.
Pink polo shirt.
My chest tightens at the floating image of him.
No. I told him no, right? To a drink? To buying me one. To . . . why can’t I remember?
My gaze snaps to the wall beside the bed. To the adjoining door. To how it’s cracked open.
Fear coils tight in my chest, my hands begin to tremble, and my stomach churns.
Shut your side of the door. Get up. Shut it. Now.
But my body has other ideas as I’m unsteady and weak, and my mouth?
“Hello?” I call out, my voice hoarse.
Footsteps thud across the floor and with each one my heart races faster. My eyes are glued to the shared door as a very large hand slowly pulls it open a little more.
And then he’s there.
Tall with broad shoulders filling the frame. Dark hair, which is mostly tucked beneath a baseball hat, that’s curling over his ears. Concern is etched in every line of his face like he’s been standing there debating whether to come in for a while now.
Relief hits me so suddenly it steals my breath.
You’re safe.
I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
Images? Thoughts? Impressions? Something flashes through my mind that tells me I’m safe.
“You’re awake,” he says quietly. And then something in my expression must prompt him to say, “Hey. Easy, there.”
My stomach does another acrobatic act, and I barely manage to lean over the trash can before dry-heaving again.
He moves before I can react, before I can be embarrassed for puking in front of a stranger. He stands behind me and gently gathers my hair back, holding it away from my face like it’s the most normal thing in the world to do for someone.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
Something inside me breaks open at those three words.
When the nausea finally eases, I sag back against the wall, and he moves to step away from me and give me space.
“Who . . . who are you?” I ask.
“You were in the bar last night. I think the guy beside you . . . something was wrong.”
The pink polo flashes through my mind again. His hand on my waist. The way I couldn’t make my mouth work.
My throat tightens. “You helped me.” The statement comes out like a question but more along the lines of being a why.
He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “I couldn’t just leave you there with him. Not when . . . you were in that state.”
My eyes sting. “Thank you.”
Another nod. “You asked me not to call the cops. Something about it ruining today or something, but you asked me not to, and there was no way I could just leave you there.”
He glances at his watch, then back at me. That’s the third time he’s done that. Checking the time. Waiting.
“I called them anyway.” His sigh is heavy, apologetic.
This is the last thing I need on today of all days.
He must notice my body tense because he holds his hands up.
“All I told them was the name of the bar, and that I had just left but there was a guy there who was acting shady. I said I thought he might be trying to slip something into women’s drinks and that they should send someone over to check it out.
I gave them a description of the prick and told them the bartender would know who I was referring to. They agreed and sent someone.”
“That’s good,” I part slur, part groan, and close my eyes as I rest my forehead on my hand that’s holding onto the trash can. At least no one else will get hurt.
“You okay now?” he asks. “Like, really okay?”
“My head feels like it’s been run over several times, and I think my stomach muscles have worked harder in the past ten minutes than they have in the past ten years.”
“At least you have a sense of humor still. But you’re good?”
“I think I’m okay.” I manage a weak smile and look back to him.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “You were out of it,” he says and fills in the gaps. “I got us a rideshare. Two rooms. Adjoining.” He motions to the door he came through. “I stayed on the other side the whole time. I—I couldn’t just leave you.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I remember trusting you.” Is that silly? Trusting a stranger? Yes. But I did. Do.
His mouth curves slightly. “That makes one of us, then.”
I almost laugh at the joke.
“Unsolicited medical advice?” he continues. “You’re probably going to have a wicked headache all day. Nausea. If Google is correct, sensitivity to light. You might want to just skip today altogether if you can.”
“I can’t.”
His brows lift. “Can’t?”
“First day,” I say. “Dream job. I can’t mess this up.”
Something flickers through his expression that I can’t quite discern. Admiration? Confusion?
“While I can say I understand, I sure as hell hope you’re good at faking it.”
“I’ll manage,” I say, already wondering how I can get an IV of saline and flush my system out without drawing any attention.
Like that’s easy at a new job.
He glances at his watch again. “I have to head out. Get ready for work and all that.”
“Yes. Oh my God.” My stomach rolls. How was I so selfish to not think about this man having a life and a job and . . . “How can I repay you?” I push myself upright, wincing as I do.
He shakes his head immediately. “No need.”
“Let me at least pay for the room.”
“It’s okay.”
“Or know your name.”
“Not necessary.” He adjusts his hat.
“My name is Emery. I guess you knew that, but—”
“I didn’t actually. I didn’t go through your things. Emery,” he murmurs as if he’s trying my name out. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Because of you. Thank you. I . . . owe you,” I stammer.
“Nah. Karma’ll return the favor in some way eventually. It always does.” He moves toward the adjoining door and turns to look at me. “Rooms are paid up. Stay till checkout if you need to. We’re a couple blocks from the bar, so it’ll be easy to get to wherever you need to go.”
“Thank you.” I sound like a broken record.
“Drink water. There are some crackers on the bathroom sink I managed to get out of the vending machine, and if you feel worse, I’m telling you, you need to go see a doctor.”
“I will.”
His smile is soft and cautious. “Take care of yourself. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
And then, he’s gone. Seconds later I hear the door of his room open and shut.
I sit there for a long moment, in a totally unfamiliar place, my body still shaking . . . but not from fear anymore. It’s from how close I came to something far worse happening.
I close my eyes, lean my head back against the wall, and inhale a shaky breath. The anger hits, quick and fierce.
Over what the man in the pink polo shirt did. Over how he decided to try and steal my sense of safety and security. Was I really such an easy target? I was so close to being—
“I gave them a description of the prick and told them the bartender would know who I was referring to. They agreed and sent someone.”
At least that’s taken care of because the last thing I want to be is a a victim. That would let the prick win and have power over me.
C’mon, Emery. Up and at ‘em.
First day.
New job.
Fresh start.
My stomach might be queasy and my resolve a bit shaken, but I’ve got this.
I push myself up and use the wall to steady myself for a few minutes as my determination locks into place.
I knuckle away the tears on my cheeks that I didn’t realize had fallen. I didn’t come this far to fall apart now.
And thanks to a humble stranger, I don’t have to.