Page 54 of Salvatore

“I’m glad to hear it.”

I keep smiling as the monstrous hands of exhaustion grip every inch of me in an attempt to drag me toward slumber.

I’ve never been this tired before. The alcohol numbed me. The orgasms sedated me.

I try to pull out of the nosedive toward unconsciousness. To fight to stay awake. But I have even less strength of willto overpower the onslaught than I did from succumbing to lust with a member of the mafia.

I feel myself falling as he cleans me, drifting pleasurably, only to startle awake from the micro nap, my brain protesting the snap back to consciousness. I glance over my shoulder to see if my greatest mistake noticed me tapping out, but Salvatore isn’t there.

He’s not hovering over me with the washcloth.

Not in the bed.

Not even in the room.

“Why the fuck does your house smell like sex?” a man’s voice carries from downstairs.

I sit up, my skull throbbing, and stare at the open bedroom door.

“Fuck off, Bishop.” That voice is Salvatore. Steely, gruff, and annoyed.

“I should be back in D.C. by now. I don’t have time for this shit.”

Footsteps carry along the ground-level hall. More than two sets. Maybe three.

I fling back a light blanket I definitely didn’t place upon myself, shoot from the devil’s bed, and rush to snatch my funeral dress off the floor to drag over my head.

Where the heck are my panties? And my goddamn self-preservation?

I rewind the drunken debauchery, speeding my thoughts over the bedroom festivities, then the kitchen counter. I think back to the moment I lost my underwear. How Salvatore dragged them down my legs and—shit. He still has my panties in his fucking pocket.

I do a visual sweep of the room in search of the next best thing—my phone.

When that tactic is a bust, I opt for a more chaotic physical search, yanking the bedcovering back from the mattress, then scrambling onto hands and knees to check the floor.

Nada.Nothing. Not even a glimpse.

I do, however, find my shoes and rush to grab them. I’m still trying to juggle the heels between my fingers as I approach his dark-wood dresser and scour every drawer.

“Where the hell are you?” I hiss under my breath.

I can’t leave without my phone. I’d have no access to money. No way to get home.

I do another visual once-over of the room, this time noticing something black, sleek, and remarkably phone-like sticking out of the top drawer on the nearest bedside table. I practically dive for it, snagging the device, never more happy to be staring down at my blank screen with the slight long-term crack in the bottom left corner.

I turn it on as the faded male voices murmur from a far-off place in the house, my jaw unhinging at the time stamp in the top-left corner of my phone screen.

3:09 p.m.

Are you fucking kidding me?I slept for hours?

Missed calls and text messages are alight on the screen. All from Olivia.

Liv

What’s going on?

Where are you?

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