Page 8 of Faking the Pass

Beauty Sleep

P resley

The game went into overtime, and it was late, almost midnight, by the time I got home.

The headlights of my father’s car lit up the front of my house as he circled the courtyard drive and stopped even with the front door.

All the windows were dark, of course. Though it had only been five days, it seemed like weeks since I’d been home.

Mom and Dad were great, and I loved spending time with them, but grown men weren’t meant to live with their parents.

When the game had ended tonight, Mom had tried once again to persuade me to stay at their house, insisting I still needed post-op support (in other words, babying), but I’d stuck to my plans.

Dad looked over at me. “You good? Need help getting inside?”

I reached across my body and opened the passenger side door with my left hand.

“Nah, I got it.”

He nodded, approving. “You’ll be fine. Had some injuries in my time, too. They heal.”

I started to respond with a joke, but then he added, “If Wilder can survive running the most dangerous missions in the military with his SEAL team, we can’t complain about a few bumps and scratches from playing a game.”

Just like that, any humor I’d felt about the situation evaporated.

As far as I recalled, I hadn’t complained—and I wouldn’t dare compare myself to my incomparable older brother.

“Right. Well, thanks for everything this week,” I said, getting out of the car. “And thanks for the ride.”

“You bet. We’ll call you tomorrow,” Dad said before I shut the door.

I watched for a few seconds as he drove away and rounded the bend out of sight.

Even if I had to wear the same fucking shirt for a week and go without showering, I’d figure out how to take care of myself and recover from this on my own.

Besides, I was way too grumpy to be around other people right now, even my family.

What I needed was to be back in my own space where I could truly relax—and if I was being honest, to wallow in self pity for a minute.

It had hurt to watch my team play without me tonight.

The back-up quarterback, Austin, had done his best. I knew that, but it hadn’t been enough, and the team had lost.

I’d hoped Austin’s struggles might at least mean Dylan would get a chance to get into the game, but Coach Maddox had left the second-stringer in the whole time while my brother rode the bench as usual.

Which meant Dylan was probably as morose tonight as I was.

I reached for my phone to text him then remembered it had taken a tour of the toilet today, courtesy of my nephew.

I’d call Dylan tomorrow when I had service again. I was tired anyway.

A wave of peace and relief washed over me as I got the door unlocked and stepped inside.

The place wasn’t a mansion or anything, only about four thousand square feet with four bedrooms, but as it was just me living here, I didn’t need a house the size of a Walmart.

Of course, it wasn’t tiny, either, more like just right.

I’d chosen the house for its high ceilings and open floor plan, but most of all because of its location out on a rocky point along Atlantic Avenue.

The winding seaside drive had always been my favorite street in Eastport Bay.

With ten miles of rocky shoreline and spectacular ocean views, it was home to a large grassy park, several private beach clubs, and numerous waterfront mansions as well as a handful of more humble abodes like mine.

I loved the privacy my house offered as well as falling asleep to the sound of waves right outside the windows. I also love being able to fish from my own dock out back, something I hoped to be doing a lot of during my recovery.

Of course I’d have to learn to cast with my left hand instead of my dominant right. Ugh.

Once inside, I flipped on the kitchen lights, stopping short at what they revealed.

Weird. I guessed the cleaners hadn’t been here. There was a plate and mug in the sink, and on the counter, an almost empty wine bottle.

Okay then. Maybe the cleaning woman did come and had decided to help herself to a lovely Napa chardonnay instead of doing her job.

Either that or the drugs they’d used to knock me out during surgery last week had wiped out my memory of opening it myself.

Had someone come over the night before the ill-fated game?

Yeah, that must have been what happened. I’d never had an issue before with the Fairy Godmother Cleaning Agency.

One of my family members had probably called them and notified them about my injury and hospitalization, and they’d simply canceled their service until further notice.

Well, I was a big boy, and I could clean up my own messes. I loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and wiped down the counters.

Then I checked the fridge. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t remember what I had here at home, and I’d need to order some groceries tomorrow.

The refrigerator was pretty much empty except for a stick of butter, some eggs, cheese slices, a package of uncured, sugar-free bacon, and a jar of minced garlic.

I could have sworn there’d been about half a leftover pizza in here, but I must have finished it.

Moving through the living room, I headed for the hallway leading back to my bedroom—and froze.

There was a single wine glass on the lamp table beside my favorite chair. Next to the glass sat a plate littered with pizza crusts.

And a pile of cellophane snack wrappers.

I walked over and picked one up. It was from a package of those super-processed chocolate cupcakes with the white cream inside and the swirl on top.

And there were about six of them scattered over the table.

Either I was a total slob and had left my place a mess before last week’s game— and had eaten junk food I never ate but kept on hand for my brothers’ visits—or someone else had been in my house.

To top it off, a fluffy throw blanket my mom had given me (that had never actually been used) was draped over the chair’s arm.

Holy shit. Did some deranged groupie find my address and make herself at home?

Or maybe a drug addict had gotten the munchies and decided to raid my pantry? There were no signs of a break-in.

Maybe it had been a highly skilled cat burglar who’d broken in then gotten hungry. My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory.

The entertainment system was still intact, and no one had touched the Super Bowl trophies displayed on the shelves on either side of my fireplace, so I doubted someone had broken in with the intention of robbing me.

Peering down the hall, I saw that all the doors coming off it were standing open as usual—all but one.

The primary bedroom door was closed. My bedroom door.

Shit shit. Maybe there was a burglar here, and he was ransacking the bedroom first before pilfering the electronics.

I did keep my Superbowl rings and my watches in my top dresser drawer.

Should I call the police?

Nah. I didn’t hear anyone. It was probably nothing but an overactive imagination and anesthesia-induced memory loss.

Besides, if the police did come out here, there’d be a report in the local newspaper about it, and my address would be printed for the world to see.

I’d done everything in my power to keep it secret up till now, and I was extremely reluctant to let it leak for no good reason.

It’s nothing. You shut the door yourself last week. Man up, chicken shit.

Only I never closed my bedroom door.

One of the joys of living alone was being able to leave all the doors open and never worry about anyone else disturbing me or being disturbed by me.

Just in case, I went back to the living room and grabbed the baseball bat that always leaned in one corner. Gripping it in my left hand, I crept down the hall and eased open the bedroom door, alert for any sign of movement on the other side.

The room was still and dark, illuminated by only the faint glow of moonlight outside the large ocean-facing window.

I detected an unusual sound, though. Nothing loud, but something out of the ordinary.

What was that? It sounded almost like the quiet hiss of a humidifier.

Or breathing.

Spinning around, I held out the bat, ready to crack the skull of the intruder breathing down my neck.

There was no one there.

I spun again and lunged for the light switch, flipping it up to turn on the lamps placed around the room.

My own breathing slowed as I realized I was alone in the room.

It stopped altogether when I got a look at the newly illuminated bed. At the lump under the comforter.

The lump wasn’t moving.

Could have been a large pillow maybe. Could also have been the burglar, attempting to hide.

If there was a burglar hiding under there, he was a puny one.

And a moron if that was the best hiding place he could come up with.

Tiptoeing toward the bed, I held my bat at the ready should the inept criminal spring from beneath the covers and charge me.

I reached the bedside. There was still no movement.

But there was definitely someone under the covers.

A very blonde someone with a mass of messy golden curls peeking above the sheets.

Fuck. It was a groupie after all, and she was sleeping in my bed. Perfect.

Just what I needed tonight.

I was going to have to call the Eastport Bay P.D. after all.

Suddenly the woman moved. With a soft snort, she rolled from one side to the other, dislodging the covers that had been obscuring her face.

My mouth fell open.

Is that… no it can’t be.

I knew her. Or at least I used to.

A tingling sensation started at my scalp and moved down my entire body, lifting the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck.

It made no sense at all, but somehow, Rosie James, rising Hollywood star and the girl I’d dated for three weeks in high school, was fast asleep in my bed.

What the fuck?

I’d have been lying if I said I hadn’t imagined this woman in my bed more than once.

But in those fantasies, she hadn’t been asleep.

We’d been engaging in the kind of activities I hadn’t dared try with her back when we were kids.

Down boy, she’s a married woman now.

What the hell was she doing here—alone—on her wedding night?

I’d have thought she’d be at a fancy reception right now or maybe off on her honeymoon already instead of sleeping like a baby in an ex-boyfriend’s house.

She looked like an angel there in the light of the bedside lamp.

Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and she was more beautiful than she’d ever looked onscreen or in publicity photos.

Prettier even than she’d been in high school, and I’d thought she was a goddess back then.

So what was I supposed to do? Let her finish her beauty sleep?

Wake her up and demand to know what the hell she was doing in my house?

Before I could decide, she opened her eyes, blinking slowly for a second.

And then she screamed.