Page 4

Madison

Someone is sitting on my head. There is no other explanation for the vise grip that’s crushing my skull.

I moan, unwilling to open my eyes. My bed doesn’t feel right. The mattress is too firm. It’s not sagging in the middle. My pillow is too soft. And I think I’m still wearing last night’s clothes.

Suddenly, I jerk awake, panic filling me when I decide I’m definitely not in my own bed in my own house. When I see someone sitting two feet from me—staring at me, no less—I scream.

It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s Myles. Not a stranger. Not some guy I went home with. I push to sitting, trying to remember how I got to Myles’s house.

The room starts spinning. I’m going to throw up. I tug the covers back, scramble from the bed, and run into the attached bathroom. I make it to the toilet just in time before everything comes up. Except there’s nothing in my stomach. I’m dry heaving. And each time it happens, my head pounds harder.

I’m mortified as Myles holds my hair back and hands me a wet washcloth. How the hell did I get here? The last thing I remember is calling my dad to tell him my car was stolen, and…

Fuck. He called Myles.

I groan as I lean back, sit on my knees, and press my palms against my temples. “What did you tell him?” I murmur.

“Tell who? Ohhh… Your dad.” He chuckles.

I tip my head up to glare at him, but that hurts. I shouldn’t have moved so fast. “Shit, Myles. Did you tell him I was drunk? He’ll probably make me move to Germany without letting me finish my semester. I only have a month left.” I groan again as I drop my head into my hands.

“Yep. That’s what he would do. If I had told him.”

I turn my head, slower this time. “You didn’t tell him?”

Myles smirks and lifts his eyebrows. “Not yet. Figured I would talk to you first. Get the whole story about how much of a trainwreck your choices have been lately and offer you an alternative solution before telling him.”

I stare at him. Is he serious?

Myles points toward the tub. “Take a shower, clean up, get dressed, and meet me in the kitchen.”

I don’t think I can move. If I do, I’ll vomit again.

Myles turns to leave. “I put your clothes in the drawers. Your toiletries are in the vanity. Chop chop. You’re wasting daylight.” He leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

I blink. What just happened?

Whatever is going on, I don’t think crawling back into bed is an option. He might change his mind and tattle on me if I do, so I slowly haul myself to my feet and look in the mirror over the sink.

I cringe. I look like death. Last night’s mascara is smeared all down my face. The front of my hair is crispy and limp. I wince when I recall throwing up. I’m betting Myles was there for that, too. Great.

There is a glass of orange juice and two ibuprofen on the counter, and I quickly pop the pills into my mouth and force myself to swallow them with a little juice. Hopefully, it will stay down.

Maybe after I shower, I’ll be able to stomach the rest of the juice. When I open the drawer on the vanity, I find my makeup remover, my toothbrush, my hairbrush, and toothpaste.

Those are the only things in there. Who chose them from my bathroom? Myles? It couldn’t have been one of my roommates. They would have packed makeup. I can’t for the life of me remember how I ended up here. I don’t remember leaving the bar. It’s all a blur.

My hands are shaking as I remove my makeup, which only makes me look marginally better. At least I’m not a raccoon anymore. I have to hold on to the counter for a few minutes before I can remove my clothes. The room is spinning.

It takes a while to get my blouse off, and I cringe again as I realize what I’m wearing. What Myles saw me wearing last night. This skirt. Sheesh. It’s so short. And he couldn’t have missed my bra.

I brace myself, exhausted by the time I’m naked and waiting for the water to heat up. I keep my hands on the walls when I step in, letting the water run down my body. Part of me thinks maybe I’d rather slam my head against the wall and let death take me under than experience this.

Why do people drink to excess? My roommates do it all the time. They drag around all weekend hungover every week. Why would anyone do this again?

When I feel stable enough, I turn to see what my soap options are. Myles didn’t bring anything from my shower, but he has shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in here, so I use it.

It takes me far longer than usual to wash myself. I keep having to lower my arms and stand very still to keep the nausea at bay. Eventually, I’m clean, and I wrap up in a towel before stepping out of the shower.

That’s all I can manage, though. I’m going to fall if I don’t lie down for a minute.

I shuffle back into the bedroom and lower myself onto the bed, letting my legs hang off the side.

My hair is dripping. The towel is tucked around me.

I pull the pillow over my face. It’s too bright in here. Myles must have opened the blinds.

A few minutes later, I flinch when I hear him clear his throat. I ease the pillow off my eyes and squint, even though it hurts.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, sipping coffee and smirking. “Headache?” he says far too loudly.

I cringe and manage to flip him off. Why must he look so delicious when I’m in my hungover state?

He’s wearing well-worn jeans, loafers, and a Henley.

His dark hair is thick and messy, in need of a cut.

Though I like it like this. He hasn’t shaved for a few days.

He has the perfect sexy beard thing going on.

I turn away from him when I realize I’m staring and probably drooling. I’m pitiful.

“Clothes, Madison. Kitchen. Now.”

“What are you, a drill sergeant?”

“Well, I was at one point. I’ve also had a hangover or two in my day. Trust me. Lying there isn’t going to get rid of it. You need bacon, eggs, tea.”

The thought of eating makes me nearly heave yet again. I cover my mouth.

Myles laughs. Fucker. “Ten minutes, Madison.”

“Maddie.”

He chuckles. “Maddie is a nice nickname for someone who is not in trouble.”

I groan as he leaves, and I can’t help mocking him in a sassy tone. “Maddie is a nice nickname for someone who is not in trouble.” Sheesh. “Who does he think he is? My dad?”

“I’m definitely not your dad, sassy girl. But if you don’t get your smart ass downstairs in nine minutes, I might decide to flip you onto your stomach, yank that towel off you, and spank your naughty bottom until you lose your attitude.”

I gasp. Fuck . I thought he was gone. My face heats as I realize he heard me talking back to him. I don’t even know who I am right now. I never behave this way and certainly not in front of my dad or any of his friends.

I sit upright, thinking to apologize, but he’s gone. I hear his steps on the stairs. My heart is racing as I go back over his last words to me. Did he really just threaten to spank me? Surely I misheard him.

What I know for certain is that I shouldn’t fuck around any longer.

I don’t want Myles to call my dad and tell him he picked me up drunk last night.

Whatever terms he intends to negotiate, I need to accept.

Even though I’m an adult, my dad thinks I’m twelve.

I wouldn’t put it past him to yank me out of school and make me move to Germany.

I’d have to repeat my entire last semester if I dropped out.

It’s ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. I’ll be twenty-one next week.

I’m too old for my father to pull me out of school.

It’s absurd. But what he can easily do is stop paying for anything.

He pays my tuition, my rent, and all my expenses.

I’ve never had a real job. He said my job was to get good grades and finish school.

Yeah, he would be very disappointed if he found out Myles had to pick me up drunk from a bar and hold my hair back while I vomited. I’ve never gotten into this kind of trouble before. I wouldn’t want to test it out to find out how my dad would react. So, I’m at Myles’s mercy.

I hurry over to check the drawers. One of them has bras and panties.

My face heats as I imagine Myles emptying my suitcase into these drawers.

Did he also pack for me? He must have. I really need to know what happened between the time I headed back into the bar to do shots with my friends after reporting my car stolen again and waking up in Myles’s guest room.

The only flashes of memory I have are of Myles holding my hair while I vomited. I’m not even sure where that happened. Here? At the bar? My house? If he drove me home, why didn’t he leave me there?

I slip into a matching white bra-and-panty set before finding socks, jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes.

After a quick trip to the bathroom to down the juice, brush my teeth, and work a comb through my tangled hair, I’m ready to head downstairs.