Page 9 of The Saviors: Part One
Chapter4
Chelsea
Waking up the following morning, I stretch and notice two things. One, I’m sore in all the right places, and two, I’m alone in my bed. Being sore is the only giveaway that I didn’t dream up everything that happened with Sean.
Sitting up, I push my hair out of my face and glance at the clock. Eight-fifteen. My eyes drift to the table beside my bed, and I realize Sean plugged my phone in before he left. He must have seen it in the mess of stuff he dumped from my purse. I can’t stop the stupid smile that crosses my face that he would be so thoughtful.Stop smiling, idiot.I have to keep reminding myself that it’s nothing more than a one-night stand.
I swipe my phone from the table and see six missed calls and five new messages from Amber. I slide the chat open and laugh.
Amber
I’m dying here. I need details!
Bitch, you better not be dead.
Chelsea! Please!
‘insert angry emoji’
Don’t make me come over there.
As I’m reading, another one pops up.
Amber
I SEE YOU READING THESE!
Calm down. I just woke up!
So, you are alive? I need to knowwwwww.
Girl… ‘Insert mind blown emoji’
Come over later?
Bet! I’m glad you’re okay. Love you!
Love you too.
Knowing I’m on a limited time frame before she shows up, I head to the bathroom to shower. I turn the water on to warm up, almost hating to wash his smell from my skin. My entire room still smells like his cologne, and so does my hair.
Showering quickly, I throw my hair in a messy bun, brush my teeth, and get dressed in shorts and an oversized shirt.
I just hit the last step on the way downstairs when my doorbell rings. I open my security system application on my phone to look at the camera on the porch and see a grinning Amber, hands full with bags of food. Bless her stalking little heart.
I walk over, disarm the alarm, and jerk the door open. She pushes past me, headed straight for the kitchen. I shake my head, shut the door, and follow her. The girl has no boundaries.
She’s setting out tons of greasy breakfast food, so I forgive her for the lack of boundaries immediately. I slide onto the barstool at the kitchen island and grab a sausage biscuit. “Were you stalking me?” I ask before taking a bite.
She shrugs. “I was hoping I was going to find my sexually-sated best friend. Not a dead one.” My face flushes, and she latches onto it like a dog with a bone. “Oh. What’s that? Chelsea blushing? Girl, start talking.”
I tell her everything that happened after she left the bar. When I get to the part about what happened when we got back to my place, she starts fanning herself dramatically.
“Damn. That’s my girl!” she squeals and starts bouncing up and down.
“What the hell are you doing up so early? Didn’t you have a companion last night?” I ask her, trying to move the conversation away from me.
She wrinkles her nose. “Dude. He lives with his fucking mom. You know I don’t take guys back to my place, so I went home alone.”
