Like You Hurt: A Standalone Enemies to Lovers Romance (Devilbend Dynasty Book 2)

by Kaydence Snow

  “Just a roofie.”

  This time I growled but no words came out. Just a roofie?

  Shady gave me a sharp look as we stopped at my Tesla. “Chill, bro. She won’t remember shit in the morning, but she’ll be fine. They were trying to knock her out, not kill her. Rohypnol is a benzo—it’s like she’s taken a couple of xannies. It’s not gonna kill her or anything.”

  In place of an answer, I gave him an instruction. “Get the door.”

  “You want me to take her, man? I’ll take care of it. I’ve known this chick for a while.” He opened the car door wide and stepped out of the way.

  “No,” I barked. I didn’t trust anyone with an unconscious Donna, let alone a guy who went by Shady. But I forced my tone to lighten up as I lowered her gently into the passenger seat. “I got it. She goes to my school. We . . . I know her. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

  Shady remained silent as I fastened the seat belt over Donna’s limp body.

  “You sure?” His eyes flicked between us as I straightened.

  “I’m sure. Are you sure that’s what they gave her? Maybe I should take her to a hospital.”

  He cringed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t, bro. It would look hella sus, you bringing in a chick you hardly know, roofied. Aren’t you supposed to be staying out of trouble?”

  I didn’t give a shit what kind of trouble it landed me in. I wasn’t about to risk someone’s life—not again.

  “Anyway”—he shrugged—“it’s definitely Rohypnol. We beat it out of ’em pretty quick.”

  I sighed, said goodbye to Shady, and got into the driver’s side. Even though I didn’t care what kind of questions a hospital visit would raise, I knew Donna would. No one knew about her secret little walks on the wild side, but maybe it was time they did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Donna

  I wasn’t sure if the pounding in my head had woken me or if waking up had caused the pounding. All I knew was that I felt like shit.

  I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut and mushing my face farther into the pillow. My stomach felt as if it were doing somersaults while twirling my intestines into a knot. I was so fucking hungover that—

  My eyes flew open, immediately making me wince against the light, but I had bigger problems. There was no way I could be hungover, because I hadn’t been drinking last night. I never drank or did drugs when I went to Davey’s.

  Panic clawed at my throat as I forced myself to look around. The sheets were gray, the desk under the window cluttered, a TV sat in the corner. This wasn’t my room.

  Where the hell was I?

  How did I get here?

  What happened to me?

  Fighting the bile rising up my throat, I lifted myself into a sitting position and couldn’t help groaning again. I’d never felt this crap before—not even when I had the flu last year. And that was so bad the doctors nearly put me on IV fluids.

  The fact that I had no idea where I was or any memory of how I got there was beyond disturbing. I wasn’t an idiot—I knew what happened to girls in shady bars sometimes. It was why I went there—the danger of the maybe. I just never thought I’d actually end up . . . oh god. I sucked in several deep breaths, fighting for air through the panic and the nausea and the hot tears pricking my eyes.

  Was I raped?

  I swallowed a sob and, with shaky hands, pushed the comforter and tangled sheets off myself completely. I was still in my leopard-print dress, my thong still in place. The only things missing were my shoes, but I spied them on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  I shifted my legs. I didn’t feel sore between them, but would I? If I was out and didn’t fight it . . .

  The room spun, bringing on another wave of nausea, and I lowered myself back to the pillow with a pathetic half sob, half whimper.

  I had to get the fuck out of there, but I couldn’t even get my body to stand.

  Closing my eyes, I forced myself to take deep breaths through the churning in my stomach and the pounding in my head. I needed to get my shit together and get up.

  My eyes flew open again at the sound of the door opening, but the only movement I could force my body into was rolling onto my back and turning my head to look.

  “Hendrix?”

  He was barefoot, in sweats and a T-shirt that was baggy even on his broad, muscular frame. One of his hands clutched a bright pink mug.

  “Oh. Hey. You’re up.” I’d never seen the asshole look so uncertain. His eyes flicked about the room, not staying on me too long. “How . . . uh . . . you OK?”

  “Am I . . .” My bruised brain was struggling to keep up, not processing information at its usual rate, but I got there in the end. “No, I’m not fucking OK. What did you do to me?”

  I didn’t shout—I seethed, spitting my accusation at him, as hot as the liquid in his steaming mug.

  He threw his free hand up and stepped away until his back was to the door.

  Was he trying to block my exit?

  “I didn’t do anything to you. All I did was bring you here, take your shoes off, and tuck you into bed.” His voice was calm, low, deep.

  More confusion. Why couldn’t I remember anything? “Whose bed is this?”

  “Mine.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe . . . that . . . I . . . you . . .”

  I growled and punched the bed next to me, then threaded my fingers through my hair. I’d never been this incoherent, ever.

  “I didn’t hurt you.” Hendrix’s voice was still calm, but now it had a hard edge to it. “I’m not a rapist. I’ve done a lot of bad shit—and one awful, unforgiveable thing—but I didn’t hurt you. No one hurt you. You’re safe.”

  I lifted my head to look at him, breathing hard. An infuriating tear fell down my cheek, but there was no pity in Hendrix’s gaze. He looked tired more than anything—bags under his eyes, hair a mess, eyelids drooping. As if to prove my point, he yawned and took a gulp of what I assumed must be coffee.

  “You look worse than I feel,” I said as I slowly sat up again. The nausea was easing somewhat.

  “Thanks,” he deadpanned.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Someone had to make sure you kept breathing all night.” He looked away, took another sip.

  All night? “What the fuck happened to me, Hendrix?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” He dragged his feet across the room and plonked down into the chair at his desk, backward, his arms resting on the back.

  I looked down and forced myself to really think about it.

  I remembered dancing at Davey’s, feeling all my worries melt away into the sticky floor and the heavy bass of the music.

  I remembered Hendrix, the immediate pang of irritation, how hard it was to ignore his presence.

  I remembered us bickering at the bar, and then . . .

  “I was dancing with these two guys.” I swallowed, my gaze still on his gray comforter. “You left with the brunette. We went to the bar . . .” I trailed off and looked at him. He was resting his chin on his arms, watching me, waiting. I cleared my throat. “Bea, the bar chick—she knows never to pour me alcohol, regardless of whether I order it or someone else does. It doesn’t make sense . . .”

  “Bea didn’t pour vodka into your soda. One vodka doesn’t make you pass out cold within twenty minutes. The two lowlifes you were hanging out with roofied you.”

  I blinked once, slowly. When I woke up in a strange bed with no memory of how I got there, I’d suspected as much, but having him say it in plain English brought the fact home. I dropped my gaze and swallowed around the lump in my throat. I really didn’t want to cry in front of Hendrix Hawthorn—again.

  “Are you sure . . .” I wasn’t even positive what I was asking. That it wasn’t any other drug? That it actually happened?

  “I watched them slip it into your drink. Shady and his boys beat the details out of them while I got you out of there. I was going to take you straight
to a hospital, but I wasn’t sure you’d want that, considering no one even knows about . . . your visits to Davey’s. So I sat in the parking lot googling the shit out of Rohypnol, and when I was convinced you weren’t about to die on me, I decided to just take you home. But then I started getting paranoid about what kind of home situation I’d be dropping you into. So then I fished your phone out of your purse to call one of your friends, but you have a damn passcode on it. I was gonna ring Turner so I could talk to Mena, but by that stage, I was questioning whether to bring your friends into it at all. In the end, I decided to bring you here. To my place. I figured I’d pick up and explain if someone called, but it didn’t ring all night.”

  Of course it didn’t ring. No one even knew I was out of my bed. He finished off his coffee, his gray eyes boring into mine over the mug’s rim.

  He hadn’t left with the brunette. He’d seen someone trying to drug me and stepped in to prevent them doing worse. He took care of me, stayed up all night to make sure I was OK . . .

  I frowned at him, trying to figure it out. We’d hardly spoken, had two admittedly hot but mostly rage-fueled hookups. He’d said on more than one occasion that he wanted nothing to do with me, and I couldn’t count the number of times I’d wished he’d just disappear and stop complicating my life.

  He returned my frown, leaning back against the desk. “Look, believe what you want, but that’s the truth.”

  “I believe you,” I rushed out. “I’m just . . . not feeling the best.”

  His cloudy expression lifted, and he got to his feet. “No wonder. Nausea and fatigue are common aftereffects of being roofied. It’s like an extremely bad hangover—you might be super tired for a few days and nauseated, and you might have diarrhea. I can take you to the hospital to get checked out if you want.”

  “No.” I shook my head, immediately regretting it as pain shot through my skull. “That was a good call. No hospital. No records. No one can know about this. And please never talk to me about having the runs again. Just . . . drive me to my car. What time is it?” Eventually someone would come knocking on my bedroom door.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, princess. You can shower if you want.” He pointed to a closed door next to his desk. “I’ll get you some breakfast. I have better shit to do with my time than play Driving Miss Daisy today, but you’ve had a rough night, so I’ll cut you some slack and drive you to your carriage.”

  Despite the horrid way I felt, the hint of a smile pulled at my lips. Snark was familiar territory for us, and it was making me feel better.

  He collected his empty mug; gave me an exaggerated, mocking bow; and closed the door with a soft click on his way out.

  I checked my phone and cringed. It was just after nine. Harlow would still be in bed, and Mom and Dad had mentioned brunch with the Frydenbergs. I’d been planning to be in bed when they left, but now I probably had two hours max before they got home. I hoped that was enough time to drive to Davey’s and back.

  But first—shower. I could’ve skipped it to save time, but I felt gross, dirty. I dragged my ass out of Hendrix’s bed, doing my best not to think about the fact that I was in Hendrix’s bed, in his room, in his house. What would he be doing if I wasn’t here?

  In the bathroom, a wave of nausea hit me so fucking hard I literally collapsed onto the floor. Luckily, I was close enough to the toilet that I was able to get to it before I vomited, my stomach spasming violently.

  Once I was positive I was done puking, I pulled myself to my feet and found a clean towel and some dark gray sweats folded neatly on the counter. I frowned, struggling to reconcile this thoughtful side of him with the antagonistic prick I’d gotten to know and . . . er . . . just know.

  After a quick shower where I was forced to use his shampoo and bodywash, I dressed quickly, pulling the sweatshirt over my head. When I paused and brought the fabric up to my nose—closing my eyes and inhaling the fresh, clean scent with just a hint of cinnamon—I froze.

  The mindless act had me wondering if I hadn’t been given some other drug the previous night—one that altered your personality. I scowled at myself in the mirror, wrenched the sweatshirt back off, and threw it into the far corner.

  Grudgingly, I pulled my leopard-print dress back on but wore it like a tank, tucked into the too-long borrowed sweats.

  I stashed my bra and thong in my purse and headed for the door, but I paused just before my hand touched the doorknob. What if his parents didn’t know I was here? I didn’t want to get him in trouble. I also didn’t want to deal with any more human interaction than absolutely necessary.

  Before I could make a decision, the door flew open, nearly whacking me in the nose. “Fuck! Watch it!”

  The surprised look on Hendrix’s face melted into annoyance. “Who the fuck just stands in front of a door like that?”

  “Who the fuck goes barging into a room so violently?”

  “It’s my room.”

  “I could’ve been naked.” I crossed my arms, fully aware that it was pushing my tits up—and getting way more satisfaction than I should have when he glanced down at them.

  “Were you?” His voice dropped, and he smirked.

  I rolled my eyes. Even if I wanted to entertain the idea of hooking up with this infuriating asshole again, I still felt like death warmed up. The shower had helped, but it wasn’t magic.

  “Can we get going? I need to be home before anyone realizes I’m not.”

  “Do you want to eat something first?”

  My stomach roiled at the mere mention of food, and I shook my head, breathing through my nose.

  “OK.” He rubbed my back for a moment but didn’t linger. In a few seconds, he’d pulled on some socks and tennis shoes and jammed a baseball cap onto his head. I wished it was that easy for girls to get ready. I wished anything was that easy for me. But perfection took time and effort.

  He led me through the silent, empty house and out the front door. I wanted to ask where his parents were, if he had siblings, but I kept my mouth shut. It was a nice place, not as big or ostentatious as mine, but respectable. I supposed it would have to be if they could afford to send him to Fulton Academy.

  Once we got on the road, his Tesla gliding smoothly around corners, I realized he lived only a few streets away from me. I ducked lower in the seat and sighed. I’d have to drive forty minutes to get my damn car, only to come back to essentially the same place.

  He was silent until we hit the freeway, then he reached over and turned on the stereo. Metallica blasted out of the speakers, and I cried out at the pounding in my head, clapping my hands over my ears. He turned it down. I glared at him and turned it off.

  “No music. Just . . . no anything. God, I wish the sun would fuck off.” I covered my eyes with my elbow and groaned. It was a chilly winter day, but the California sun was shining as brightly as ever. Dick.

  Hendrix’s cinnamon scent hitting the back of my nose made me crack an eye open. He’d leaned over to open the glove box and was pulling out a pair of Ray-Bans, which he handed to me. They were super dark, and I jammed them over my eyes immediately.

  I looked over and studied him from behind the anonymity of the shades. Once again, he’d done something thoughtful without being asked.

  Who the fuck are you, Hendrix Hawthorn?

  I pushed the thought away as soon as I could. He’d already thrown me off-balance. I needed less Hendrix in my life, not more. What I needed more of was control.

  As I studied his profile—the slight kink in his nose, the way his jaw tensed and relaxed as he chewed his gum, the corded muscle in his forearm as he gripped the steering wheel—I realized I still hadn’t thanked him. I may have decided to keep him out of my life and my thoughts, but he had saved me from something I could hardly think about without feeling as if I might vomit.

  I may have been a bitch, but I gave credit where it was due.

  I cleared my throat and sat up a little straighter. “Hendrix?”

  He hummed in respo
nse, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “About last night . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  He shifted in his seat, but before he could speak, I rushed on. “I know you don’t like me, and I don’t like you, so what you did for me last night—it means a lot. You could’ve just walked away. I wouldn’t have blamed you. I got myself into that position. But you didn’t. You could’ve been putting yourself in danger by doing that. Anyway, I’m rambling. Point is, I know it was no small thing, you stepping in and stopping them from . . .” I had to swallow and take a breath, but I made myself say it. “. . . from taking me. Maybe raping and killing me. You may very well have saved my life, and I’m grateful.”

  He was silent for a bit longer.

  “You didn’t,” he finally said, and I frowned in confusion. “What you said about putting yourself in that position—don’t blame yourself. I mean, going to Davey’s is stupid and dangerous, but it is not your fault that those skid marks decided to drug you and hurt you. That’s on them.”

  “I’m not victim blaming myself, you jerk. I know it wasn’t my fault. I’m trying to thank you.”

  “Fine. Good. You’re welcome.” His hand tightened on the steering wheel, and he chewed his gum a little faster.

  I stared out the window, wondering briefly if it was even safe for me to be driving yet. But I was feeling better after the shower.

  It wasn’t long before we were pulling into the empty parking lot of Davey’s. Miraculously, my white BMW was still there and not stripped for parts, despite how out of place it looked among the cracked concrete and chain-link fencing.

  “Donna.” Hendrix’s serious tone made me pause as I unfastened my seat belt.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you going to stop going? After last night . . .”

  I bristled and took Hendrix’s sunglasses off so I could narrow my eyes at him properly. The thought had crossed my mind. Was the sense of freedom, the brief escape that Davey’s provided, worth the risk? Shit had gotten pretty real the night before. But who the fuck did he think he was to assume he could ask me that?