Chapter Seventeen
Max
I roll over in the pitch black, then frown. My throat is so dry, it hurts to swallow. My mouth is even worse—parched and nasty, like it’s full of sand.
Water. Must have water.
I shift again and this time wince at the throbbing pain in my head. Ugh. What’s this about? I haven’t felt this awful since college partying after finals.
Wait, what…? Naked? Me? Why? Where am I? Jesus, Jeffrey—
Then reality comes crashing back. No, that scumbag cheated on me. I should kill him the next time we run into each other. Then engrave HERE LIES THE REASON THE DEMAND FOR DILDOS WAS SO HIGH on his headstone.
Suddenly I freeze as a hand squeezes my pelvis. Rhys!
Jeffrey is the least of my problems. Oh my God. The air stalls in my lungs as the memories from last night flash through my mind.
Rhys and I had sex! Rhys and I HAD SEX!
I slowly turn my head. Can’t see anything in the dark, but I’m one thousand percent certain he’s totally, utterly naked. Because why in the world would he have put his clothes back on? Especially since the sex was great—and the orgasms were fabulous. The most fulfilling sex I’ve ever—
Why am I evaluating his performance? It isn’t like I’m going to put that in my upward feedback. I can just imagine Kaitlyn’s permanently puckered expression becoming even more puckered. She’ll call me into HR and ask me to explain myself. Or just fire me on the spot.
Stop, stop, STOP! Get out of here! Go home! Now!
Adrenaline spikes, which hurts my head even more.
My mouth and throat are burning, but there’s no time to take care of them.
I gingerly pick up Rhys’s hand—I love how his large hands made me feel safe—and place it carefully on the mattress.
He doesn’t stir. I swing my legs over and attempt to stand, then immediately drop to my hands and knees as my head spins.
Ow, ow, ow… I start to whimper, then slap a hand over my mouth. Can’t have Rhys hear the noise and get up. Just how much did I drink? Wasn’t it just a few beers and some champagne? Is alcohol more potent in Japan?
With a monstrous—but very careful—effort, I push myself up. My knees throb like hell, but it’s fine. Knees always go bad anyway, I’m still young and the firm provides great medical insurance. I can get them replaced, no problem.
Okay. Okay. Must. Get. Home.
Limping a little, while praying my throbbing head doesn’t fall off my neck, I move silently to feel for and pick up my underwear and dress off the floor. I put on the bra, then the dress, but the thong is a total loss. I should find another, but it’s too much to manage in the darkness.
I grab my purse and phone. The only shoes I can find are my stilettos, so I carry them to avoid making any sound. As soon as I’m out of the suite, I put them on.
The hallway seems unstable under my feet.
I grit my teeth and march to the elevator.
It’s the alcohol and the dehydration. As soon as I have some water, I should be fine.
Except the elevator ride feels interminable—and my blood flows wrong, like the tiny change in air pressure is pushing it up into my skull.
Can you actually die from that? My brain feels like it’s spinning in a vat of acid.
Sadly, the memories from yesterday evening are becoming more vivid, including every second of the crapshow put on by Trevor and Jeffrey.
Just how much did Rhys see and hear? And did I actually call Jeffrey the love of my life in front of Trevor?
I try to think, but my mind is too muddied.
Pretty sure I did. Ugh. Rhys might’ve overheard that…
I think. I should’ve just believed His Majesty when he said he saw Jeffrey with another woman and dumped him via text. This is what I get for trusting men.
When I finally reach the lobby, my brain seems to slosh back into my skull, and my head hurts a fraction less. I almost cry with relief. Placing a hand on my temple, I stride to the receptionist standing behind the check-in counter.
“Hi. Can I have some water?” I croak.
She pulls back a little. “Yes, certainly.” She hands me a bottle.
I twist off the cap, chug down the whole thing, then let out a gasp. “One more, please?”
She gives me another and throws away the empty bottle. I swig the second one like it’s the elixir of life. Her dark eyes roam over my face, concern rippling over her soft, youthful expression. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” At least, I will be as soon as I’m home. “No need to sit.”
“If there’s anything—”
“No, I’m fine. Really. Thanks. You’re amazing. I’m going to miss your kindness.”
She flushes and shifts, like she doesn’t know what to make of me. I walk out, then get into a taxi waiting in front of the main entrance. “Haneda Airport, please,” I say before the driver can say a word.
The man looks at me with a frown. “No hospital before?” he says in stiff English.
“No. Just the airport, please.”
The furrows between his black eyebrows deepen. He lets out a quiet teeth-sucking sound. “Okay. But if feel bad, say to me, ne?”
“Yes. I will.” What a nice man. But “me feeling bad” isn’t something a hospital visit can fix. I need a freakin’ time machine, so I can go back in time and redo a few life choices.
The traffic isn’t so bad this early. Not even the sun’s up. The dashboard clock says it’s only 4:39.
I turn my head, then choke at my reflection in the window.
Holy mother of God. My hair stands everywhere, lipstick smudged, and my mascara is so badly smeared I look like a homeless racoon.
It’s hard to tell, but my complexion probably isn’t much better.
Otherwise my head wouldn’t continue to pound.
Nothing to be done about that. I can’t redo my makeup or wash my hair. I might even smell like stale alcohol without realizing. Some impression I’m making—a degenerate alcoholic foreigner. No wonder the hotel receptionist was so worried.
My phone buzzes. My heart drops to my stomach, which starts churning violently. Is it Rhys? What do I tell him? Ah, crap. I should’ve thought of something clever and nice to say. Like…
You’re really good in bed, but you know this can’t continue.
No, no, no, not going to work. Avoid talking about sex at all costs!
Last night was fun, but it’s time we go back to being professional.
Ugh. That isn’t any better. I mentally shake my head because it hurts too much to move it physically. Can’t think of anything that could salvage what happened last night. Should I just ignore him? But if I do, he might murder me. Or worse, fire me.
I press the heels of my hands against my throbbing temples. Unemployed is much worse than being dead? Another sign I’m not thinking straight.
I look at the screen, then let out a soft breath of relief.
–Gabriella: Is Rhys not going to accompany me? I need to know. Also, if he’s going to be irresponsible, I can’t be with him. Tell him I’m dumping him, and if anybody asks, he better back up my story because nobody gets to dump me.
Although I’m grateful the text isn’t from Rhys, her ludicrous self-centeredness is annoying.
Her situation slipped my mind, since I actually have a job and don’t have time to find a date for entitled supermodels.
And if she thinks I’m going to text Rhys that he’s being dumped, she’s delusional.
She can tell him herself, although it probably won’t end the way she expects.
I sigh, my shoulders slumping until they’re almost touching my knees. If somebody like Gabriella isn’t good enough for Rhys, where does that leave me? Gutter-rat level? Good enough to fuck but not date?
Actually, forget that—he isn’t the type of man you date anyway. I prop my head in a hand. What if he decides to fire me? What if he wants to do it again?
How can you be so confident? Just because it was good for you doesn’t mean it was good for him… a voice that sounds just like Jeffrey taunts me.
I scowl. Just then, my head aches so hard, my vision goes white for a moment.
Stop torturing yourself. Get home first, then figure it out.
When I reach the airport, I pay the fare and—throbbing skull or no—jump out before the driver can give me change or even open the door.
Apparently, you shouldn’t open the door yourself in Japan, but this is an emergency.
What if the minutes waiting for the driver cost me the earliest flight home? Can’t have that.
The international terminal is starting to come alive with morning travelers. A larger crowd than I expected mills about the terminal. Several huge banners promoting the international expo hang from the ceiling.
My blood boils as bitterness fills my mouth.
Guess Jeffrey’s enjoying it with his new girl.
I should’ve done more than just dump him, although what that “more” would be…
I can’t say. But it’s all his fault that my life is out of control now.
Fucker. If he was going to cheat, he should’ve at least done it somewhere away from my boss and Trevor!
That way the aftermath would’ve been much more dignified.
And I wouldn’t be freaking out about my job security!
I take a deep breath and try to shove aside the bubbling fury in my chest. Forget the worthless scum. Focus on yourself.
Okay, into problem-solving mode. I make a mental list of things to do: go home, recover, come up with a game plan to convince Rhys not to fire me. But just in case, get my résumé ready. Or maybe I should just hug Ailee and cry. But first things first—I can’t do anything until I’m back in L.A.
So, when is the next flight? I dash to the first information counter I spot. “Hi. I need to get to LAX. When is the next available flight?”