Page 9 of One Hot Night
Chapter Four
I wake with a start. My heart hammers in my chest, racing as if there’s something wrong. My mouth is dry and my lips verge on cracking if I don’t get balm on them pronto. I roll off the bed, my feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, and the instant I’m upright I regret it. The acidic tang hits my taste buds and something bubbles up from my gut. I gag and race to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet in time to retch up the entire contents of my stomach.
The disgusting sight makes me vomit again. After flushing away the evidence, I settle my ass on the cold tile floor. My head pounds. My skin’s damp. I need a shower, aspirin, and a tall glass of water.
Hangovers.What a fucking drag.
Peeling off my underwear, I start the shower spray and step inside, careful not to move too fast or lose my balance. Hot water pelts my skin, bringing me back to almost human. My brain fog clears as steam fills the small room. My body aches, muscles I rarely use tight and sore.Cam. My thoughts drift back to last night, and all the fun we had in his bedroom. A shiver runs up my spine despite the warmth of my shower. Fuck me. I know I shouldn’t want it, but I could go for another round with him. His mouth on my body, mine on his. Learning what drives him mad, what pushes him over the edge. His grunts. Groans. Taste. We could take turns making each other come. Okay, maybe I want more than another night. I don’t usually do repeats because it encourages feelings, but once with Cam was not enough.
Too bad I have a date tonight with someone else.
I slam my eyes shut as a wave of shame shuts down the erotic play of my imagination. This. This right here is why I can’t have nice things. Maybe this is my sign. I thought I could try a relationship, that maybe I could be fucking normal for once. Obviously I was wrong. I shake off the anxiety building at this crossroad. I’m tired. Hungover. My head still pounds. I refuse to deal or make any major life decisions in this shower. My stomach grumbles as I turn off the water and step in front of the sink. I could go for a greasy burger and a soda right now.
I finish drying off, comb out my hair, and then search for my cell to get an Uber. My car is still parked at the apartment, and I have—shit! My eyes land on the time. “Shit, shit, shit!” That cannot be right! It’s almost time for my date. Waiting in my inbox is a text from Preston reminding me he’ll pick me up for dinner.Fuck.
Forty minutes later I sit strapped into a stranger’s Prius, my knee bouncing with the speed of my pulse as we weave through an unnecessary amount of traffic. Fuck. I should be in my car and heading home by now. It’s a Sunday for fuck’s sakes.
“Sorry,” my driver, Mike, calls out for what feels like the hundredth time. “Looks like they’ve shut it down.” He points ahead and my eyes catch on the flashing lights in the distance. An SUV flipped. A half a dozen smashed cars. Emergency vehicles everywhere. The enclosed space of the vehicle suddenly feels too confining. Suffocating. We move forward another few feet, then stop. Trapped. The urge to bail is immediate.
Bile rises in my throat, but it’s not from my hangover. “Here’s fine,” I mumble and reach for the door, popping it open before Mike is able to pull over. Doesn’t matter. We’re barely moving as it is, and I doubt he prefers I stay to puke in his car. My feet hit the pavement, and I draw in a long breath. Still, it’s not enough. Heat prickles my clammy skin. The flash of lights and blare of sirens assaults my senses. I can’t get away fast enough. I barely register the blare of horns from annoyed drivers as I cut through the stalled traffic and cross to the other side. If I felt better I’d flip them off, but the only thing my brain can process right now is getting away.
I duck inside the first fast food joint I come across, order a burger, fries, and soda before sliding into an empty booth. I eat as though my life depends on it, and my pulse finally slows. The sheen of sweat covering my body cools at the arctic setting of the restaurant’s air conditioning and I shiver. I check my GPS and conclude the apartment is only a half mile walk from here. Totally do-able once I stop freaking out.
That’s when it hits me. I haven’t heard from Alicia or Callie. Strange. At least, it’s strange Callie hasn’t called or texted. Alicia’s known to ghost, especially after finding a new boy toy for the night, but Callie is more responsible. And she’s alone. I know because I walked her to her door.Fuck. Dread fills my stomach. I hope she’s okay. She drank too much last night. I should’ve run interference with those shots. Or stayed with her last night. A sickening thought flickers through my mind. Callie, face down in her own puke. I swallow back the urge to be sick myself and trash the rest of my uneaten food. Pushing outside the doors, I shoot off a group text to my friends.
Wellness check. Please tell me you’re alive.
Nothing.
No bubbling dots. No text back. Zilch. It’s as if they’ve disappeared. Dropped dead.
I can’t stand the thought.
They’re probably sleeping. Hungover. Misplaced their phones. The rational part of my brain tries reason, but that pressing panic in my chest squeezes tightly with each passing second. My strides are long and determined as I hike back to my car. I check Snapchat, Instagram, and even Facebook searching for some sign of my friends’ presence but find nothing. When my car comes into view, I run the rest of the way and throw myself inside.
The time on my dashboard taunts me and adds another layer to my nerves. I should be home, resting, making myself appear halfway decent for my date, but instead I drive straight to Callie’s. I won’t be able to relax until I know she’s safe. Alive. I shake away the alternatives. Of course she’s alive. She has to be.
I blast through a yellow as my phone pings from its spot in the center console. My pulse stutters and breath slows. It’s probably Callie. Or Alicia. I’m overacting for nothing, letting my imagination run wild with every worst case scenario. It pings again. Then again, but there’s no opportunity to check the screen without taking my eyes off the road. Damn it. I should’ve splurged on a hands-free system for this very situation. At the next stop light, I eagerly glance down at the screen.
What the—?
My eyes practically bug out of my head. The messages are all from Cam.
Cam the Man: Thought you might be missing this guy so I made you something.
Cam the Man: If you print these out they make a naughty flip book.
Cam the Man: You’re welcome.
Attached is a photo of Cam in his boxer briefs. Tight, second-skin-hugging boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination. And apparently I’m not the only one remembering last night. The dick print is everything I remember it to be.
Wait. How did he get my number? I scroll up to see a text from my phone to his. Last night, when he programmed it in, no doubt.
Me: Thanks for the best fuck of my life.
Seriously?I scowl at the cockiness of his message. Maybe he meant it as a joke, but it sparks annoyance regardless. Another photo comes through before the light changes, this one showing the tip of his cock poking through the band of his briefs.
A rhythmic beat of text alerts sounds from my phone, serenading my drive. Jesus.Fuck. How many dick pics can one man send? I need to concentrate on driving—on checking on my friend—not this . . . fucking hell, he’s got a nice one. I shake my head, ashamed at how easily he distracted me. It’s exasperating. Rude. Presumptuous, even. And yeah, so maybe for the first time all day laughter bubbles in my chest, fighting to break through at the ridiculousness of his actions. This is definitely a new one. His efforts are unconventional, and quite creative.Just like he is in bed. A flush spreads over my body as my skin heats.
