14. Ember
Ember
I woke up to a headache that felt like a personal attack.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears, each tick of my pulse like a bass drum pounding against my skull.
Stronger than anything else was the instant regret that hit me.
I groaned in response, rolling to my side, only to gag at my own breath.
The sudden wave of nausea forced me upright.
“Fuck,” I muttered, forcing my stomach to calm down.
Opening my eyes fully, I prayed I’d made it home to my own bed.
A sigh of relief left me as I registered the world around me.
I was surrounded by my blankets, a confirmation that I hadn't gone home with a random stranger.
Not that that had been the plan, but the night had started with a simple promise to myself—to do exactly what I wanted.
I must have succeeded in some form, because I could barely remember leaving the house. By that point, we were already a few shots deep. If I thought about it too hard, I could probably admit that I was lucky to be here and not in a freezer somewhere.
I pulled the blanket up around me and watched as something fell off the bed.
Right away I could tell it was a different fabric than my comforter.
Looking down, I realized that it was a black jacket.
Holding it up in the morning light, the tag read "men’s" and I knew that it didn't belong to me.
Oh god, had I invited someone back here?
! There was a faint scent of cologne that lingered to the piece of clothing, one that was oddly familiar to me.
Balling it up, I tossed it into the corner of my room and told myself that I would deal with it later.
Moving slowly, I shuffled off my bed and headed toward my bathroom. Every step felt like a personal challenge, as if my body was fighting me tooth and nail. When I flicked on the light, the mirror hit me like an additional slap of hell.
My makeup had melted into something straight out of a horror movie.
Mascara streaked down my cheeks in thick black lines, and bronzer smeared along my jaw like I’d been laying in dirt.
My lipstick, what little was left, dragged across my cheekbone like I’d lost a fight with my own face.
I took one last look before splashing some cold water on my face and peeling off my shirt.
My shirt. My arms were still in the middle of the air as a brief memory flashed in my mind of the leather I had worn.
Where had my clothes gone? Trying to find an answer to that question, I pulled my shirt the rest of the way off and leaned over the counter, bringing my hands up to my face.
Slowly exhaling through my fingers, I convinced myself that a shower would help.
Turning on the water, I stood there watching the steam collect.
After it was hot enough, I stepped inside, letting water beat down on me.
Washing my body, I breathed through waves of nausea.
The warmth had just started to feel nice against my skin when my stomach flipped and the walls around me started to shift.
Placing my hands against them in defense, I looked down as my eyes caught something on my leg.
They narrowed even further as I registered the five letters that were written there.
A name.
Using my hand to wipe away the residual soap that fell from my hair, I stared down at the word that now branded me.
Silas.
Red infiltrated my vision, and I yelled out every single cuss word I could think of.
The headrush brought even more nausea, and I had to hold myself up for a second to think clearly.
I could either make myself puke in preparation for fighting him, or I could brave breakfast and figure out what the hell happened last night.
Pressing my forehead against the tile, it took me all of five seconds to decide against the forced tequila exorcism.
The best answer was breakfast or at least some answers.
Wrapped in a towel and still dripping, I reemerged into my bedroom and sat on the bed.
Rubbing my temples in slow circles, I fished my phone out of my bag and turned it on.
I watched as the start-up screen faded and then did everything I could to stop myself from screaming. There, as my wallpaper, was a picture of a masked Silas with my fucking leg—a leg that he’d apparently autographed. The picture faded as notifications came flooding in.
Twelve missed calls.
Three voicemails.
Nineteen messages.
I dismissed a few, only to have more pour in.
Kolby: WHERE ARE YOU?
Bodhi: You left with a random guy? Kolby is freaking out. Just let us know you're safe.
Kolby: It looks like you did come home. Thanks for letting us know.
Kinsley: I’m dead. I’ve died.
Kinsley: Seriously, plan my funeral.
Kinsley: Promise me that you’ll make sure I never drink again.
Kolby: You alive?
Bodhi: We have food for you whenever you’re ready.
Unknown: Last night was a bad decision but at least I got something out of it. Can you send me that picture when you get a chance?
My thumb stopped over the last message.
I’m going to kill him.
I furiously typed out a message, just to delete it and then retype it again. Nothing I wrote encapsulated my fury quite like the feelings that were storming through my mind. After a few more minutes I finally settled on one and hit send.
Touch me again and I’m calling the police.