Page 34 of Fighting for You
Chapter Fourteen
Margot
My brain feels too big for my head, my eyes are like sandpaper under my eyelids, and my mouth tastes like a dumpster. As I wake more, the pressure in my head turns to a pulsing pain behind my eyes, and nausea roils in my stomach.
I’m never drinking with Thea and Ripley again.
Last night is a blur of loud music, fried food, and tequila.So much tequila. I remember laughing, real belly-aching laughter, and dancing with Thea and Ripley. Was Archer there too?
I roll to my side, trying to find a more comfortable position, and take a few deep breaths hoping my stomach will settle. Then I freeze, and my eyes spring open. A comforting bergamot smell I recognize surrounds me, but I can’t place it. It’s mixed with an undertone of cigarette smoke, making my stomach squeeze. The room is large and unfamiliar. My eyes scan the window and bedside table, snagging on my phone lying next to a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen.
Please let me be alone in this bed. Please let me be alone in this bed.
My heart pounds in my chest, I can almost feel it in my throat, and it makes the throbbing in my head even worse.
As slowly and gently as possible, I turn my head to look around. With a quick glance behind me, I’m greeted by nothing but more rumpled bedding. Letting out a relieved breath, I push myself to a seated position and take in the rest of the room. The furniture and wallpaper are dated—a style that looks like it belongs back in 1992—but in good condition. Unfortunately, nothing in the space is giving me any hint as to where I am.
I reach for my phone to check the time, but it’s dead.Of course.
I’m just going to assume I ended up crashing at Ripley’s or Thea’s. They wouldn’t have let me go home with someone in my state, right?
My dress from last night hangs neatly on a chair in the corner, my shoes on the floor next to it. I look down and see I’m in an oversized grey RED T-shirt and—thankfully—the panties and bra I wore out last night are on underneath.
Other than my head, the next body part screaming for attention is my bladder. Squeezing my thighs together, I slowly climb from the bed and go to the only door in the room. I’m thankful to find the large T-shirt falls to mid-thigh, covering me just enough. With one hand on the door handle and the other cradling my dead phone, I listen for any sounds on the other side for a few moments, and when I don’t hear anything, I push through into a dim hallway.
Several closed doors line the length of the space, but I spot a partially open one leading to a bathroom. As I tiptoe toward it, I keep my ears pricked for any noises from other parts of the house, but it’s silent. The walls in the hallway are a drab yellow, punctuated by numerous nail holes and discolored square andrectangular outlines indicating dozens of pictures hung here at one point.
I sigh in relief after plopping myself on the toilet and massage my temples, willing the headache to ease. Unfortunately, the action does almost nothing.I’m never drinking again.
While washing my hands, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and groan. My hair looks like a rat’s nest, curls frizzy and limp. The makeup I painstakingly applied last night is smeared, mascara and eyeliner smudged under my eyes making me look about as good as I feel.
I splash some cold water on my face and use a tissue to clean up the best I can. Looking back at the mirror, instead of looking half-dead, I appear like I haven’t slept in a week, so… an improvement?
Men’s toiletries litter the bathroom, all-in-one shampoo-conditioner-body wash in the shower, a stick of Dove for Men deodorant and a straight razor next to the sink. We must have gone back to Ripley’s. I recall Thea saying he lives close enough to walk to the bar. Relief surges through me at the thought I’m not in some stranger’s home.
I open the mirrored medicine cabinet, hoping to find confirmation I’m at Ripley’s house. No luck—just some topical pain relief cream and floss.
Okay, I’ll just go downstairs and either find a charger and call Hayes to come get me, or I’ll find Thea or Ripley, and they can help me get back home or at least to Hayes’ shop. I wish I could tell what time it is.
A couple more deep breaths and I won’t empty my stomach on the hallway floor. I quietly step out and creep down the stairs right outside the bathroom door. The stairs spill out into an empty entryway and dining room.
The space isn’t exactly how I’d imagine Ripley living. Everything is dated—the furniture, rugs, even the curtains look like they were hung by a middle-aged woman, not a twenty-something man living on his own. Maybe he inherited the place from his parents? I don’t know much about his family—from what I’ve heard, he grew up in Indigo Hill, but his parents aren’t in the area anymore.
Suddenly, there’s rustling from the couch. I can’t see what’s making the noise because the couch faces away from the stairs, so I creep closer.
Long, elegant fingers twitch. The muscular, tattooed arm they’re attached to covers most of the face of their owner, who quietly snores. A long body drapes over the sofa, feet and calves hanging over the end. He’s shirtless, miles of muscles and dark tattoos on display interrupted by bruises and scrapes in various states of healing. A blanket covers his lower half.
There are a few empty beer bottles strewn on the coffee table along with an overflowing ashtray. The pang in my chest of how similar this scene is to what I find at my dad’s house on a weekly basis is eclipsed by the shock of seeing Brooks splayed out. My hand comes up to my mouth, barely keeping my gasp inside.
Why is Brooks here? Please, please, please don’t let this be his house. What happened last night?
I slowly back out of the living room, right up the stairs where I hurry into the bedroom I slept in. I reach for the dress I wore last night, and I’m about to switch it out for the T-shirt I’m wearing but get a whiff of last night on the material: day-old liquor, smoke, and sweat from dancing.
Realizing I can’t wear it outside, I rummage through the dresser and luckily find a pair of mens’ basketball shorts a few sizes too big. I try not to think about the fact the clothes belong to Brooks. I roll up the top of the shorts and stick my feet intomy ankle booties. I look and feel ridiculous, but I just need to get out of here.
I’m not entirely sure where I am, but Indigo Hill is pretty small, I should be able to find my way to the center of town and to Hayes’ shop. My stomach roils at having to explain my state to my brother—and it has nothing to do with my hangover.
As silently as possible, I sneak back downstairs. Holding my breath and with my shoulders tucked up under my ears, I try to make as little noise as possible. I’m just a few feet from the front door when I hear a deep, raspy voice say, “You could at least have breakfast with me as a thank you for last night.”
