Page 42 of Last Chorus

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

evangeline

The second I wake up, I remember how much I hate alcohol. My mouth tastes like a trashcan, my stomach is on a boat, and my heartbeat thuds in my eyelids.

Rolling away from sunlight that burns my face like a chemical peel, I search blindly for a pillow to put over my head. After a few seconds, I give up with a groan of defeat. Even if by some miracle I was suddenly the type of person who could fall back asleep easily, the ache in my bladder would negate the option.

Nevertheless, opening my eyes is a mistake. For several reasons.

First, my eyelashes have glued themselves together in retribution for me not taking off the eight pounds ofmascara I wore yesterday. By the time I force them to part, my eyes are stinging and watering.

Second, I can no longer ignore the fact my bedroom is south-facing and doesn’t get direct sunlight—the kind blasting on my back right now.

And lastly, the man sleeping in an oversized armchair beside the bed, clearly having kept an eye on me all night, isnotClay.

Wilder’s arms are crossed over his bare chest, his head propped awkwardly on what looks like a bunched up T-shirt. His long legs, encased in plaid pajama pants, are crossed at the ankle on an overturned luggage case. Dark hair falls artlessly over his brow. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing deep and even.

My physical misery now has a challenger—absolute panic. They go to war as I sit up too fast and almost hurl. Cold sweat breaks out on my body. Swallowing bile, I look around and recognize the style of the room. I’m back in the Santa Monica house.

What the hell happened last night?

As if waiting for the mental cue, flashbacks unfurl like a row of middle fingers eager to extend afuck youto what’s left of my mental stability.

What happened in the limo. Surviving the red carpet and Clay’s touches through sheer willpower. The cool satisfaction in his eyes when I sat down after Glow’sfinal win. Changing in a hotel room and dodging Lily’s attempts to talk. Avoiding her and Rye the rest of the night. Laughing and pretending everything was fine. Drowning my despair with alcohol.

My memories melt somewhere between Lily’s final attempt to speak with me and Wilder’s hand on my arm as we walked somewhere.

My panic reaches new heights, manifesting as a high-pitched note in my ears. I scramble off the bed, almost eating floor when my feet are momentarily caught in the comforter. My tangled, product-encrusted hair whips around my face as I dart erratically around the room. In the attached bathroom, I locate my dress—damp for some reason—hanging over a towel rack. But my clutch is nowhere to be found.

I run back into the bedroom.

“Wilder, wake up! Where’s my phone?”

He jerks upright with a grunt, then winces and grabs his neck. “Shit. Why are you yelling?”

His sleep-roughened voice arrows right between my legs. Before I can recover, he stands, visually punching me with the mouthwatering sight of his bare upper half.

No one should have that many abs. It’s not natural.

Wilder’s rapidly clearing eyes scan my face, drop down my body, then snap back up. He drags a palm overhis mouth, his brow pinched. Air leaves his nose in a short burst.

That’s when I realize I’m wearing a thong under one of his T-shirts, which just so happens to be soft, thin, and white, and that the sun is behind me. Not only can he see how tightly my thighs are squeezed together, he can see everything else, too.

Another flashback hits. Mortified, I slap my hands over my face and shake my head, not caring that the violent movement magnifies the pounding in my skull.

“Please, please tell me I didn’t make you touch my nipple.”

He coughs over a sound suspiciously close to a laugh. “You totally did.”

“Why didn’t you lie?” I wail.

Now he’s for sure laughing. “I make an effort not to these days. Besides, you were shitfaced. It’s not like I took it as an invitation.” He pauses. “Do you remember anything from after that?”

I slowly lower my hands, turning my back to him at the same time so I can stay sane. “Not at the moment, no. Why? What else do I need to be humiliated about?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he says, quick and firm. “I just wondered if you knew how you got here.”

I shake my head. Panic creeps back in. “Do you know where my phone is? I really need it.”

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