Page 43 of The Hitch
"Yes." He gently peels the blanket away from me, holding out a tall glass of water and a blister pack of painkillers.
"Fine. Thank you." I grab the blister pack from him and struggle with the foil. Finally releasing two of the pills, I pop them into my mouth and drink deeply from the glass. God, it's so good. All water should taste like this. Well, it doesn't taste likeanythingbut hydration. Absolutely perfect.
Blinking into the morning light, I look around and notice we're not home. Shit, that's right, we stayed at the fancy hotel out in the country. It's shockingly luxe. It doesn't have the same sterile soulless feel of chain motels—it almost looks like some rich guy's summer home. I guess in all fairness, it is.
"That should kick in soon. Breakfast was delivered just a few minutes ago—hungry? Eggs, bacon, Belgian waffles. Get some carbs in that tummy," he chuckles. "If you'd prefer hair of the dog, I'm sure we can get some mimosas shortly."
"No," I groan with a gurgling stomach. "Fuck no. No alcohol. I'm done."
"Then you should definitely eat some of the waffles. I had one already—it's divine, as to be expected." Dante sits on the side of the bed and gently runs his fingers up and down my back. My stomach rolls again, and I squirm away from his touch.
Oh,fuck.I throw the blankets off of me and scurry towards the bathroom—thank god I remember where it is because the pills and water I just swallowed are coming right back up. Bile burns in my throat and tears sting my eyes before I realize that Dante—rich as fuck, asshole dickhead Dante—is holding my hair back and kneeling on the tile beside me.
"I hate this," I whine and lean my forehead on the porcelain. It's cold and immaculately clean. I send up another silent thank you to the hangover gods for that.
"I know, love," Dante murmurs as he swirls my hair into a ponytail. I crack open an eye and tilt my head to watch him as he stands and fills up another glass of water for me. "Let's try again, hmm?"
I gulp the glass down and hold it back out to him. He refills it without another word exchanged. Weird. I can't believe this douchebag took me to a spa, let me drink myself silly, and now… now he's taking care of me. Super fucking weird. Did I get dropped into some alternate universe?
While I sip the second glass, Dante wets a white washcloth with steaming hot water and comes back down to my level. Carefully, he wipes my chin and lips clean. Even though my vision is still a little bleary from the tears, I study his face. Those little freckles are really the only imperfection—if you could call them that.
He's carved out of fucking marble. And he's cleaning my puke off of me. I guess if I have to get knocked up by someone, I could do worse.
Just as I think the words, I realize my inner thighs feel warm and slightly wet. Daring to peek down, I see red and slam my eyes shut with another groan. My monthly friend is here and staining the robe that I took from the spa. "Fuuuuuck."
"What? Do you think you're going to throw up again?"
"No. Maybe. But that's not—I'm bleeding."
"What? Where? Did you hit something when you went down—oh." He falls silent, and I can't look at him. I can't look at anything, I just want to keep my eyes shut tight and maybe sleep for seventeen hours or so. I hear him stand up and turn on the shower for me.
"I'll be right back. The water should be a good temp shortly."
I listen to his footsteps disappear and the room door close. Ofcourse,I'd start my period today. Right on time, just like clockwork. And I know that the doctor tested my urine so we'd know if I was already pregnant. But I still had a tiny inkling of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd already knocked me up, and I wouldn't have to think about all the logistics and tracking and at-home urine testing.
My eyes snap open. "Fuck. Did I reallyhopeto be pregnant already?"
I heave myself up off the floor and stumble into the shower, scenarios running through my head. I was, of course,verydrunk last night. But I distinctly remember him saying that he wanted someone like me to carry on his legacy. Someone kind of broken. Someone violent. I imagine myself swollen up, heavily pregnant. For some reason, I can't imagine myself in the early stages. Only just about ready to pop.
Will my feet swell up? Will my sciatic nerve hurt all the time? What if I have morning sickness the whole time? What if… he gets what he needs and discards me?
The thought stabs through my gut as I lather up my hair. That's not what this is supposed tobe.This is a means to an end. This is a transactional relationship. It'sfine. And it'll keep being fine as long as I tell myself that.
It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine.
I repeat the mantra in my head and mouth the words to myself as I hear Dante re-enter the room, knocking gently on the bathroom door.
"I've got clean clothes for you, though they're not the haute couture you've been buying recently." I can practicallyhearthe smirk on his face. "I wasn't, um, I wasn't sure what kind of menstrual supplies you prefer. So, I got all of them."
"All of them?" I question as I turn off the water and throw back the curtain. My eyebrows nearly meet my hairline as I see he wasnot joking. With a hotel-branded bag in his hand, he lays out the supplies on the counter. Tampons, pads, two different menstrual cups, and even a sealed pair of period panties. "Where did you get all of this?"
"The hotel store," he replies. "We sell various toiletries for forgetful guests. Or emergency situations like this. Which leads me to the clothes."
He pulls out matching hotel-branded sweat pants and a massive T-shirt. "Like I said, not haute couture. But it'll do, I trust?"
"Yep," I say as I grab the fluffy towel from the warmer bar. "By the way, we need one of these in our bathroom."
"Consider it done."
