Page 27 of Ordinary Secrets

My eggs? What?He’s asking me that as if I casually stay overnight at his house all the time. Maybe he’s used to women waking up here, but I’m not used to waking up anywhere except in my own bed.

“What happened?” I ask more firmly this time.

“I’ll tell you once you put my lamp down.”

If Trey wanted to hurt me, he would have already, right? Sighing, I set his lamp onto the island.

“Is scrambled okay?” Trey asks, all light and gentle.

“Um, sure.”

From the refrigerator, he pulls out a carton of eggs. “What do you remember?”

“I remember being at the Soul House. I was watching your band play and...” Then I was thrown over the shoulder of a giant man like a sack of potatoes.

“Did you know that dirty-mouthed motherfucker?” Trey’s tone has lost all his earlier gentleness. It’s ironic that he’s calling Dex dirty-mouthed when he’s no better.

“No.”

“He drugged you.”

My jaw drops. “How? I nursed my lemonade the entire night.”

“I know. I was watching you. More specifically, him. You kept talking to him, so I thought maybe you knew each other. I never saw him put anything into your drink, so I called Sophie. She owns the bar. I told her what happened. On a hunch, I asked her to check out the new bartender. She found drugs on him. Lots of ’em. The cops were called. Got a text from Sophie this morning.Apparently, Mitch and Dexter were in on it together, and this wasn’t their first time.”

A shudder runs down my spine. If I’m not the first, what happened to the others? I don’t think I want to know.

“What now?” I ask.

Trey turns back to the stove and flips over the sizzling bacon. “They’re both arrested and are probably gonna go away for a while. Sophie is gonna do a better job at performing background checks before she hires. I get that she’s short-staffed, but she can’t just take in anyone off the street.”

“Was that you who beat up Dex?”

“Once I saw him take you outside, I jumped off the stage to make sure you were safe. At first, I couldn’t find you. I was really worried, Arella.”

The idea that Trey was worried about me stirs a little flutter in my belly. Just another one of the many uncontrollable reactions my body has to him. Like the way my heart jumps through my shirt every time he says my name.

“Thanks for coming after me. I’m very grateful.”

“Me too, Arella. You have no idea.”

There he goes saying my name again, making my insides leap. No one ever calls me Arella, not even my grandparents. I’ve been going by Ari since kindergarten, when none of the other kids could remember how to say ah-rel-lah, so my teacher suggested that we shorten it. I liked it so much that now, barely anyone even knows that Arella is my real name. Most people think Ari is short for Ariana, and I don’t care enough to correct them.

The toaster pops up with some perfectly browned bread.

“Butter?” Trey asks as he grabs a ceramic dish from the cabinet.

My stomach rumbles. “Yes, please. And thank you, Trey, for everything.”

“No problem.” He smiles sweetly, then gestures toward the row of barstools on the other side of the massive island. “Take a seat.”

I claim the rightmost stool, leaving the other three empty. Trey’s back faces me as he cracks a few eggs into a buttered pan. No complaints about the view. His rippling muscles are practically bursting out of his white T-shirt. His dark-chocolate hair is tousled in that just-out-of-bed sort of way. Last night, he had a dreamy, superstar aura about him. Now, in gray sweatpants, tossing eggs around in a pan, he looks... normal. Or as normal as men with model-like faces can look.

From the fridge, he grabs two cartons of juice and holds them up. “Apple or orange?”

“Apple, please.”

He pours me a glass, then one for himself. I accept it and take a sip, shivering a little.

---