Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Fran
I wake up a few times in the middle of the night, dimly aware that I’m sleeping in some sort of chair, in a rather comfortable room.
It’s an odd feeling, being utterly exhausted and incapable of keeping my eyes open, while still subconsciously being aware of my weird surroundings.
It's like waking up in the middle of the night when you're sleeping naked.
Every time you wake up, you think "I. Am. Naked."
I look down, startled, still clearly loopy from meds, because I’m suddenly afraid I am sleeping naked, and I don’t even know where I am. Oh, thank fuck. Still wearing… something. Lord knows what it is at this point. I settle back down, so sleepy I could doze right back off again, and likely will.
I’m hot, though; my hair’s all sweaty and I’m panting under these blankets. I yank off the top I’m wearing so now I’m in the camisole underneath. Phew, that’s better.
Someone left a fire in the hearth, but the fire’s died down, leaving only flickering light on the embers. It was the pile of blankets that made me so hot.
I try to piece things together as I lie there, still half-stoned. I kick the blankets off and toe off my socks. I’m wearing leggings and a cami, and wish those could come off, too, but I don’t know if I have any privacy here and that’s all I need is someone to come in and see me naked.
I went sledding down the hill like a goddamn polar bear on its belly, straight into the damn tree, unyielding bit of nature that it is.
Why did I let the girls talk me into that? I should know better. But I've been letting them talk me into doing stupid, half-cocked things since I was ten. Hell, I've talked myself and them into quite a few stupid things myself. Sounded fun at the time. It's kind of our theme.
Sigh. Those words will go on my tombstone.
I close my eyes and try to keep tabs on what’s going on.
First, where am I? I have only the vaguest recollection of getting here and what happened after that.
I know I hurt myself by crashing into a tree. Not my best hour.
Then I… oh. Oh.
I blink in surprise when everything comes rushing back at once.
Tate carried me.
I hurt my head.
I can’t go to work tomorrow.
Tate.
I close my eyes and stifle a groan. Did I do anything stupid? I was nearly delirious with pain, but even delirious me remembers that. How could I forget? It’d be a dream for a girl like me, if only it hadn’t been tainted with so much pain and mortification.
Big, stern, burly Tate, all muscles and dark, brooding sexiness.
How many drugs did they give me?
I am literally asleep on some sort of couch thing in the Cowen family… living room or something… thinking about Tate’s stern hotness. I try to mentally circle back to the other complications I'm currently facing, but all I can think about is…
Tate carried me back. I vaguely remember asking him if I was too heavy, and that look of disdain he got that went right to my belly. I remember him telling his sister a variety of things… But I don't remember the details. I took a few pills… Got a little loopy… I'm still a little loopy…
I gasp. Oh my God. I was… was I mocking him? Waving my finger and pretending to talk in a deep voice in that deep brogue of his? Oh my God.
If I could up and leave here, I swear to God I would right about now.
There are voices in the hallway, and I’m suddenly wide awake and stone-cold sober. They’re deep voices. Manly voices. Deep, manly voices.
God, yes, I am still super high. I wish being high was more fun than this, but right now all I'm trying to do is remember how I open my mouth and speak if I need to. I try to remember how to walk. And how I do things like… open the door.
But my head feels like it's about three times its normal size and attached to the rest of my body with fishing line, like a strong gust of wind will make it wobble. Let’s just say it’s a strange feeling. It’s fading, though. It’s been hours since I took the meds.
I wouldn’t mind being so high if it took the pain away, but it seems whatever the doctor gave me only made me lose control of my senses, not really doing anything else.
The voices come closer and stop right outside the door. I try hard to listen but can’t make out anything.
And then it dawns on me with vivid clarity. This is perfect, perfect.
This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
I’ve wanted a firsthand look at the Cowen Clan, to see how they really function, to see how they really are. You know, get a right good taste of bona fide mafia life. I need details. All of them, and now’s my chance.
Okay, who am I kidding? I really just want to see one of those men split wood bare-chested.
Oh, God. Oh my God! I suddenly remember more details about the way I mocked him, and I absolutely mentioned things like mafia in my drunken hallucinations.
Up until then, I had never once mentioned that I actually knew they were part of the mob.
I sort of assumed that I was one of the few trusted outside of their Clan.
But we had a sort of understanding, until last night, that I didn't actually mention mob out loud. Oh God.
I need to leave. I need to get out of here, go home, and never show my face here again.
What will they do to me if they know who I am? What have I done?
They don’t know. There’s no way they do.
How can I look him in the face, after that mockery of his Clan that I made?
And why am I more concerned about Tate than my own mates, Paisley and Islan? My thoughts are a scrambled mess.
I toss off the covers and try to get to my feet, but the ground looms up weirdly in front of me, like I’m standing in the center of a waterbed or something. I grab for something to steady myself.
Damn it. I must’ve gotten a concussion. Damn tree.
Suddenly, my heart slams against my rib cage. There they are again, voices right outside the door. Someone’s opening the door. There's a sound of the door handle turning, and then the door opens. I hold my breath.
“What the hell are you doing standing up?”
I blink. Tate. I’d know that gruff, stern voice anywhere. I’ve imagined that gruff, stern voice before, only he was saying things like, “Come here and sit on my lap, bonnie lass.”
Flush.
Please God, I did not just say that out loud in my state of highness.
“I asked you a question, lassie.” He stands, shadowed in the doorway, hands anchored on his hips.
I can’t see his features because of the way the light falls, but I can tell it’s him by the wide breadth of his shoulders, the way he fills the whole doorway like an angry, vengeful god, his dark brown hair falling across his forehead.
Why is it so much hotter in my fantasies when he calls me that?
“Oh, just stretching my legs,” I say nonchalantly, but I'm trying so hard to be normal it feels forced.
To prove my point, I sort of extend my legs and my toes.
Stretch one leg, and then switch to the other side.
He tips his head to the side curiously. I don't blame him.
I probably look like a deranged ballerina.
He’s not amused.
“Get back in bed.”
“Maybe I need to use the toilet.”
“Maybe, or you do?” Again the glare, ice blue eyes beneath dark brown brows that snap together with utter disdain. The look sends a frisson of awareness straight between my thighs. I’m so shocked by the sudden turned-on state of affairs that I utter a little, “Ohh.”
I sit back down.
He rushes to me, as if to catch me.
“What is it? You alright?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just woke up all… sweaty and hot.”
Did that sound sexy to him, too?
My voice ends on a little squeak because he’s reached me, and his eyes rove over me as if he’s just seeing me for the first time. I look down at myself, as if just remembering that I could.
My full breasts are barely supported by this thin little cami. And do pain meds make nipples bigger, or is that just my high imagination?
He turns away. “Get back in bed.”
All the Cowen men are like this. I’ve wondered if it’s like a mafia thing, like all mob guys just grunt and boss people around. I’ve seen mob movies; it’s a thing.
I’m not complaining. I normally wouldn’t mind at all, but he’s a little overbearing.
“Need to use the toilet,” I say. “That’s a definite.”
“I’ll help you.”
I flush to my hair roots and blink at him. “No, sir, you absolutely will not.”
He gives me a wicked grin. “I like it when you call me sir.”
He did not just say that.
I blink and give a forced laugh that’s meant to sound affronted, but I don’t quite pull it off. “Do you?”
“I do.”
“Is that how you play all the girls?”
“No, Fran. Just you.”
Oh, God.
He continues. “Now, just to clarify. I meant I’d help you to get to the toilet. Once you get in there, whatever you need to do you can do on your own without my assistance.”
Of course that’s what he meant, and I’m an ignorant cow.
I laugh again, and again sound deranged. “I’m a little off,” I say to him in explanation. “I don’t know what that doctor of yours gave me, but it made me loopy A.F.” I actually say “A.F.” like I’m verbally texting him, and I cringe at how juvenile I sound.
“I noticed,” is all he says. “Now, let me help you.”
He’s right up against me, closer than he’s ever been, closer even than he was that time on our not-really-a-date, when we met accidentally over a cup of coffee.
And then he touches me, and oh my God, his hand’s on my elbow.
I can feel each finger as if he’s branding me, heat emanating from his touch.
Then he places his other arm around my waist, and a pleasant shiver runs down my spine.
I hold the arm he has around me tightly, and hobble like a little old lady. It’s disconcerting, and I don’t like it. I don’t like being dependent on anyone.
“Were you in here before?” I ask.
“Aye. Leith called me out, needed to have a brief meeting.”
Ooh. They were talking about mafia things, I just know it. My pulse races. I don’t say anything, though, because I have to keep a modicum of self-restraint.
“Oh, aye, I understand. Meetings are important.”
Really, Fran? Really?