Three
ALYSSA
MY HEAD FEELS like a hundred little men with big hammers are pounding away on my brain. Pound. Thump. Pound. Thump. Argh, I slowly try to open my eyes to the world. “Bright,” I mumble out to nobody but myself.
My angel fairy must be listening today because I hear the shifting of fabric and the room becomes darker. Much better. I try to open my eyes again, slowly coming back to reality.
Why is my bed so damn hard? Wait. I open my eyes. That’s when I see him. That’s when I realise I am most definitely not in my bedroom. Because, one thing I know for sure, the god sitting in the chair across from me would not be following a girl like me to my bedroom, or any room.
“Morning, sunshine.” Oh god, he talks. His voice.
A husky rumble that goes straight through to my core. He’s looking straight at me with a smirk on his face and one raised eyebrow, like he’s waiting for something.
“Ah… umm.” I stumble over my words.
“Usually, the response would be good morning. I’d even accept: Morning, handsome. Morning, sexy. Your choice really. I’m not picky.” Picky, maybe. Cocky, definitely.
“Morning?” My greeting comes out as more of a question than an actual greeting. “Where am I? Do I know you? Oh god, we didn’t, did we?”
I freak out as I look underneath the jacket that lies on top of my dress—my dress, which is still in place, thank god.
I mentally run an internal category of my body: my head hurts for sure, my stomach is seedy, but other parts (the important parts) nothing.
Surely if we did anything, I would feel something, right?
Looking at him, I don’t see how I wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to get him naked.
He’s wearing a pair of faded jeans, a black V-neck shirt that stretches across his chest and broad shoulders, and black boots.
Did he just come from a photoshoot? His biceps are on show from the short sleeves of the shirt.
He’s not disgustingly huge like a bodybuilder. Just the right amount of muscle, enough to know he takes care of himself and spends time in a gym. His shirt is tucked in slightly to the waist of his jeans, which hang low on his hips.
His hair is damp like he’s just stepped out of the shower—mmm, now that I would like to see, him in a shower, water running down his body. I’m pulled from my thoughts as I hear his laugh; it’s deep and rough, almost like his voice is not used to the concept of laughing.
He’s laughing at my obvious distress. “Trust me, sunshine, if we did,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “you would most certainly remember, and not to mention, feel it for the next few days.”
Yep, most definitely a cocky-ass, probably has girls falling at his feet left and right. Why does that thought make me want to throw up even more?
He hands me a bottle of water and some aspirin that were sitting on the table. “Take these and drink this; you can thank me later.”
I swallow the pills and drink half the bottle of water before looking back at him.
“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.
Where am I, and how did I get here?” I wave my arm around the office I woke up in, then take a moment to look around the space.
It’s obvious no money was spared fitting out this office.
A huge mahogany desk sits centred in front of wall-to-ceiling windows that overlook the view of the Sydney Harbour.
Dark timber shelving lines the walls; some stacked with bottles and glasses, and others with photographs, books and ornaments.
“You’re in my office. I carried you up here after you collapsed on me down at the bar.”
Bits of the night start coming back. I remember sitting at the bar, I remember staring at the man who now sits in front of me (GQ), and then I remember Ethan.
“Ethan?” I question, unsure what happened to my date, and unsure if I exactly care what happened to him either.
At the mention of the name, Mr. GQ looks away from me, face hard as stone while clenching his jaw. “He your boyfriend or something?” he asks through clenched teeth.
“Or something,” I answer, shrugging. He doesn’t seem happy with my answer, just stares blankly at me like he’s waiting for more.
Well, he can keep waiting. I’m not one to discuss my ins and outs with strangers.
“Have you got a bathroom I can use?” I ask as I stand up on wobbly legs, looking up at him as I regain my balance.
“Through there.” He nods to a door. I pick up my clutch from the table and make my way into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say out loud as I try not to panic over my current situation. I pull my phone out to see a million missed calls and texts from Sarah, Reilly and Holly. Sarah must’ve told them I didn’t come home. I read through Sarah’s texts first.
Sarah: Where are you? I thought you’d be home by now.
Sarah: Seriously, Lyssa, text me back so I know you’re still alive.
Sarah: Okay, if you don’t call me back, I will come and hunt you down.
Sarah: You left me no choice. I had to call Holly and Reilly. Now you have three pissed off friends. Seriously, call me back so I know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere!!!
Sarah: Wait, you’re not dead in a ditch, are you? Shit, because if you are, I will revive you just to KILL you myself for making me develop stress wrinkles.
Holly: Lyssa, there’s no shame in getting your freak on. There is shame in making your friends worry. Text me back so we know you're still breathing.
Reilly: Is he hot?
At this, I laugh a little and then stop myself as I realise I’m probably sounding like a crazy person to Mr. GQ on the other side of the door. I quickly send out a group text to the three of them.
Me: Not dead, not in a ditch. Be home soon!
Not even three seconds later, my phone vibrates in my hand. I don’t bother opening their messages. Looking in the mirror, I audibly shriek at the reflection staring back at me. Racoon eyes much?
“Jeez, no wonder he was staring,” I mumble to myself. I make quick work of doing my business, washing my hands and face before picking my phone back up and opening the Uber app.
I walk back out of the bathroom to find Mr. GQ standing at his desk—at least I think it’s his desk. He looks like he belongs here. Realising I’m staring at him again, I look back down at my phone.
“I’m just going to call for an Uber and be on my way. Thanks for whatever it is you did for me last night.”
“No,” he says, staring straight at me. I swear he can see right into my soul; his stare is penetrating… mmm, penetrating. Damn it, now I’m thinking of him penetrating in other ways.
Shaking my head, I question him, “No? What do you mean, no?”
“Exactly that. No, you won’t be getting an Uber home. I’ll drive you.” I must look like a confused nut job around this guy; he never seems to make sense to me.
“Well, that’s nice of you, but I don’t even know you. I’ll just take an Uber.”
“Do you know every Uber driver in Sydney?” he asks.
“What? Of course I don’t know every Uber driver in Sydney,” I respond, shaking my head at him.
“So, it’s safe to get in a car with a complete stranger, but not safe to get a lift home with the guy who saved you from being date raped last night?” He’s so matter of fact.
“What do you mean date raped? I wasn’t…”
“No, you weren’t, but you would have been had I not stepped in. That guy you were at the bar with, Ethan…” He clenches his jaw as he grinds out the name.
“I watched him put Rohypnol in your drink at the bar. Although he must have already given you something before you came in here, because you passed out without even touching the drink you ordered.”
Holy shit, someone drugged me. No wonder my head feels like shit. I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say to GQ, so instead, I stand, awkwardly staring at him.
I finally decide that I have manners. Reaching my hand out, I say, “Hi, I’m Alyssa, and thanks for helping me out last night.
It’s all a bit foggy for me. I remember being at the restaurant and then coming in here for a drink.
I remember seeing you at the bar. I mean, how could I forget seeing you.
That’s not a face anyone would forget in a hurry, and…
oh god, now I’m rambling. I’m just going to shut up now and go home. ”
Before I can even turn around, he grabs my hand and I’m stunned again at the zap of electricity going through my body. I wonder if he feels it too because he says nothing for a beat, just looks at me, confused.
He gives his head a subtle shake before speaking. “I’m Zac. Zachary Williams, but you can call me Zac, and I’m still driving you home.”
With that, he picks up a pair of keys from his desk.
He walks over to the couch to pick up his jacket before turning back to me and placing it over my shoulders, wrapping me up in his scent.
It seems like such an odd and intimate gesture, something someone I don’t know shouldn’t be doing. It feels right though.
The fabric is soft. I gather the top of the jacket in my hands and bring it to my nose and sniff.
It smells like him, woodsy with a mix of citrus.
If he thinks it’s strange that I literally sniffed his jacket, he doesn’t say anything.
He just smirks at me, showing me a dimple I can see myself licking.
Before I can lose myself in my head again, he places his hand on my lower back as he leads me out of the office.
“Come.”
I shiver at the demand—wild thoughts of him demanding me to come while spread out naked on his desk run through my mind. I contemplate how his hand feels warm, the complete opposite to how Ethan’s hand felt when he touched me last night.
The thought of Ethan makes me furious. How dare he drug me. I don’t have time to stew on my anger now. As Zac, aka GQ, leads me through the building, I’m focused on trying not to trip over myself with all the people around openly gawking at me? At him?