19. Vanessa
CHAPTER NINETEEN
VANESSA
Iwake with a full bladder and a splitting headache in a dark room. I know I’m not in my own place. If I were, I’d be able to see something. My blinds are crap, barely filtering out the light.
Where am I?
With my head pounding, I slowly rise from a bed—big, comfortable, but not mine.
My feet touch the ground, finding solid wooden planks. With my hands out in front of me to stop me from running into anything, I walk forward. My hand touches something soft—heavy fabric. I realize they’re drapes and pull them back.
The morning sun hits me in my face like a wrecking ball, hurting my eyes and head. I quickly shut the drapes again, waiting for the pain to settle.
I vaguely recall the event that transpired after Cupid came to my rescue. I remember his soothing voice giving me reassurance that I was safe, being carried in his brawny arms, and his club’s medic asking me questions. Scalpel, I think his name was. He said I have a concussion.
Gently, I touch the knot on my forehead and wince. It still hurts, maybe a tad more this morning.
Carefully, I inch back the curtain, letting my eyes adjust slowly to the light. When I’ve pulled back the curtain far enough to see outside, I look out the tall window.
Below is a downtown street lined with motorcycles the full length of the block.
Bikers wearing Royal Bastard MC leather cuts lean against their bikes, talking to each other or walking in and out of the building I’m in.
There are old brick buildings across the street with people walking along the sidewalks, going about their day.
And judging by the sun in the sky, I’d say it’s mid-morning.
Though I don’t remember coming here last night, I’m certain I must be in Cupid’s clubhouse, in his personal space. He must have moved me when I was sleeping.
Where is he?
Glancing down at myself, I notice I’m wearing a giant t-shirt. Definitely not mine. Although I’d put money on it being Cupid’s.
When did he undress me? It’s not like he hasn’t already seen me naked. Still, I wasn’t aware.
My mind is fuzzy, not remembering anything after I was told I could sleep.
I look around the room where I had been sleeping.
A simple Scandinavian king-size bed with plush white bedding is in the center of the room up against a wall of exposed red brick wall.
There’s a large, light-toned walnut dresser with a mirror above it on the opposite side of the wall with three tall windows.
In the far corner of the room, there’s a tan-leather lounge chair with a small side table and a black metal floor lamp leaning over the chair.
It’s the perfect little reading space. I walk toward it, seeing a book on the table—The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper.
Fascinating. I never took Cupid to be a fan of the classics, let alone a reader.
I open a door on the far wall, finding a large walk-in closet. One side is filled with Cupid’s belongings in neat order, and the other side is empty aside from a bunch of stacked boxes.
The door next to the closet leads into a spacious bathroom with green and black mosaic tiles on the floor and walls, with a large walk-in shower with all the shower jets a girl dreams about and a vanity with double sinks. The room is washed in sunlight from the skylights above. It’s gorgeous.
Noticing my reflection in the mirror above the sinks, I walk to the vanity to get a closer look.
In the center of my forehead is a very angry-looking bruise in various shades of dark purple.
I grimace. No amount of makeup is going to cover this sucker.
At least my professors, my counseling clinic supervisor, and George will believe me when I tell them I have a concussion.
My forehead is evidence enough. I quickly use the bathroom before exploring the rest of the place, hoping I’ll run into Cupid.
When I exit the bedroom, I enter the main living space, furnished similarly to the bedroom and decorated in greens, golds, and monochromes. More exposed brick, tall windows, and skylights give Cupid’s home a spacious feel. It’s masculine, yet tastefully done.
In the corner, there is a stack of cardboard boxes, similar to what I found in the closet. It’s almost like Cupid is unpacking.
Did he recently move in?
Instead of a television dominating the living room, there are rows upon rows of open shelving filled with books—some I also have copies of as well—and an extensive vinyl collection.
In fact, there’s no television in the room at all.
There’s a high-end record player on the shelf, with a record on it just waiting to be played.
I cock my head to read the label on the vinyl—The Moody Blues.
A lover of classical literature and 60s English rock bands—the man behind the biker is an old soul at heart, someone my grandpa would have gotten on with. My lips tugged upward at the corners, pleased I get to see a tiny glimpse of the man who calls me his woman.
Tons of plants, some species I recognize as ones I have in my apartment, add pops of color throughout the main room, giving it an earthy, welcoming vibe. I instantly feel settled, as if I could move in and be content.
On the opposite wall from the shelves is a giant white canvas with a black outline of a butterfly, very similar to the one Cupid has tattooed on his chest. It’s rare to find any man with an interest in butterflies.
What could be his attraction to the beautiful winged creature? Does this art symbolize something important to Cupid?
There are two smaller empty rooms—bedrooms, my guess—against the far wall, along with a smaller yet equally nice full bathroom. I move through the apartment, my fingers running over his tan leather couch when my hand runs over a thick emerald green blanket.
Whoa! I have the same blanket—like identical—on the back of my couch at my apartment. It seems we have similar tastes. That’s refreshing.
I move further into the open-concept home, walking into a sleek, modern kitchen with black cabinets and butcher-block counters. There’s a big island with metal stools along one side of it, as well as a simple dining table for more intimate meals on the other end of the room, like a dining space.
Again, there is a small pile of boxes near the kitchen island, waiting to be unpacked. It’s odd that the place looks filled and yet Cupid is still unpacking his things. He is the club president and runs a bar. Perhaps he’s limited on time and puts things away when he can.
The brightness from the sun coming in through the windows is bothering me, and the pain in my head is worsening.
I vaguely recall Scalpel saying I can take acetaminophen for pain while I heal.
There has to be some here in the apartment.
I’ll rummage through Cupid’s bathroom cupboards, but I’ll need something to wash the pills down with.
Looking for a glass to fill with water, I open a kitchen cabinet.
When I don’t find one in the first cabinet, I open a few more until I come across a cabinet of mugs and drinking glasses.
I’m reaching up for a glass tumbler when I spot a familiar green ceramic mug with the words World’s Best Grandpa in sloppy children’s writing on the front.
There’s no way.
I pull the mug off the shelf with trembling hands, flipping it over to read the initials VW on the bottom of the ceramic.
This is the mug I made for my grandpa in my fifth-grade art class, the same one that sits on my kitchen counter in my apartment that I drink my morning coffee out of each day.
What if…no, I’m being paranoid. There must be some reasonable explanation why my grandpa’s mug is in Cupid’s kitchen cabinet, right?
Feeling suspicious, I set the mug down, turning toward the pile of boxes next to the kitchen island. I open a box, finding my dishes—the black ones with the white polka dots. Moving to the next box, I find several other kitchen items that belong to me.
Oh, no.
I hurry back to the living room, looking at the plants and several of the books, noticing they are all mine as well.
The blanket on the couch is also mine. The random pile of boxes in the corner are filled with my school textbooks and class materials.
My laptop and cell phone are on the coffee table with my backpack propped against the legs of the table, almost like it’s set up for me to study—exactly how I would have it set up at my apartment.
Horrified, I look at everything.
There’s a stack of my framed pinups leaning against the wall with a hammer and box of nails nearby, like someone was hanging them and decided not to last second.
Did Cupid decide to wait to hang them, to avoid making noise while I recover from my head injury?
My photographs with my grandpa are displayed throughout the living space, carefully placed for me to see when using the living room.
Shaking, I head into the master bedroom and go into the closet. I open one box. Sure as shit, it’s my clothes. In the bathroom, I pull open a drawer from the vanity and find my toiletries amongst Cupid’s. And when I head toward the bed and open the nightstand, I gasp.
My dildo—the one I named Cupid the other day as a joke, the one he used to taunt me when he broke into my apartment.
My anxiety rising, I stumble out of the bedroom. Everywhere I look, I find my things mixed among Cupid’s items.
My god. Cupid moved me in while I was out cold.