by Natalie Wrye
Because Naomi finally glances at me, at the sight of blood on my face, and her knees fold into two, as she falls to the floor, joining drunks number one and two on the hardwood.
My smile softens, dropping off my face, as I peer over at Naomi’s unconscious one. And I know there’s no way I’m asking for the ballsy brunette’s help now.
Chapter 8
NAOMI
A wave of nausea rolls over me the second I open my eyes.
The bed is cool, chilled against my cheek as my eyes adjust to the darkness, and somewhere in the back of my mind, my first thought comes to the conclusion that all alcohol is bad.
Very bad.
My second thought goes to how dry my mouth is and the third thought tries to figure out where the hell I am.
I’ve never seen this bedroom I’m in before. It’s definitely not mine—not the one that has a stack of books in one corner and every movie that Julia Roberts has ever made in the other.
A king would envy the mattress I’m waking up in right now, and though it’s dark, my fingers can feel the many-thread quality of the expensive sheets beneath me.
Whose bed am I in? And how the hell did I get here?
I sure as hell don’t remember driving home. And I hope to God I didn’t.
I have flashes of memories from last night. Bitty snippets.
The Alchemist. Chris the bartender’s wide smile. An evil man named Don Julio and the tequila named after him. And a bloody brawl that has me weak in the stomach even now.
I sit up in what I only assume can be Prince Harry’s bed. But that’s a mistake.
My head pounds in three different chords of pain, and my vision swims as I stare at the slightly ajar door leading to the rest of whatever Duke or Duchess’s house I’m currently in.
I try to remember the rest of the night. But my thoughts are in the wind, scattered all over the place.
My meat-tenderized brain remembers to look for my phone, and when I don’t find it, I stumble towards the door in search of anything resembling life.
Exiting the room like a mouse in a maze, I find the kitchen by feel alone, and somewhere in the midst of my head pounding, bare feet staggering, I hear a noise on the other end of the penthouse.
It’s strange, really. Everything around me looks vaguely familiar but I can’t place it.
I consider grabbing one of the knives nearby, but my Swirl-o-vision determines that is a “no.” Settling for an egg-whisk, I half-stalk, half-shuffle my way to a room where I hear voices.
I stop before going inside, clutching the whisk. Inching my way closer, I nearly seize when I realize who’s talking.
Sawyer Kennedy. Every six-foot-four chiseled inch of him.
Half-naked. Stalking across the floor in only low-slung jeans.
He doesn’t see me. And I thank God that he doesn’t.
With his long legs crossing the length of another palatial room, his honey-brown head of hair down, phone attached to his ear, he talks to someone on the other line.
Voice full of hushed heat, his quiet voice thunders, and I lean in, watching, unable to breathe. Wishing I’d grabbed something less see-through to block the vision of the Greek god in front of me.
I swallow around my dry tongue.
“Don’t you think I know that, Sevin?” He hisses into the phone to my boss, his back turned to me. “The EMS guy checked Naomi’s vitals. Helped her throw up. Endured one or two cracks about looking like Ryan Gosling in something called The Notebook, and we think it was the tequila or the sight of blood, to top it all off, that made her pass out. She’s fine. She’s sleeping it off.”
He pauses, taking his sweet time pacing before talking again. “She doesn’t need a hospital. Maybe a shrink to see someone about that mouth of hers. But not a hospital. And she sure as hell doesn’t need a babysitter.”
He waits a beat. “Yes, Father Dearest, I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of handling two drunken dickheads.” Another beat. “I can still swing a bat and throw a ball.” Another. He smiles. “Yes, I would have saved you some of the action if you had been there. But I understand. Charlie’s gotta be your number one priority.” He hesitates. “No. No, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. If you promise to lighten up and take the teeth out of my ass. I’ve had enough chewing of it for one lifetime.”
I don’t know how I avoid snickering. Maybe because I’m afraid my brain will leak out of my ears if I do. It’s still pounding.
Watching Sawyer try to wise-assingly defend me to my boss—his best friend—is the funniest scene I’ve witnessed in a while, and with it, I remember the unsuccessful evening I’ve had and how Sawyer saved it.
The few tequila shots I had. The super drunk guy. The fight. And a trip to the bar’s hardwood floor.
And Sawyer, standing there, lifting me into his large arms.
My only consolation? That I didn’t do something even more stupid—like go for another round of ‘Kiss the Kitty’ with Sawyer—tonight.
And other than figuring out whose bed I woke up in, figuring out a way to silly-string my falling-apart life together is goal number two.
If only I could stop staring at him.
He stands there, after his call, muscles bunching under an amber light, oblivious to my eavesdropping. The room smells like his scent. Something akin to smoke and soap and cotton, and a notion niggling in the back of my mushy mind tells me to step forward. To thank him.
To tell him about my recently formulated plan.
And that’s what I would do…if he were anyone else.
But he’s not. He’s my boss’s best friend.
A man getting way too close to my mess of a life not to see through it.
Sneaking out before he sees me is my only option. But just as I backtrack away from the doorway, Sawyer’s phone rings, stopping my heart.
My feet stop with it, and I dawdle just beyond the huge doorframe, fighting both my instincts.
The one that wants to run away…and the one that wants to run to Sawyer.
I hate them both as I do neither, freezing as Sawyer picks up the call.
“Yeah?” He hesitates as a soft voice speaks in his ear. “Hey, Squirt. Yeah, no, I got your text a little earlier.” He starts walking again, his back to me. “Sorry about the sudden hang-up. A lot’s been going on here. More than your delicate ears should hear, I can confirm that.” He stops, running one hand over his gorgeous face. His knuckles are raw, bleeding in some spots, but if it’s even possible, he looks sexier than ever.
I hate the sight of blood. Can’t stand it.
But the evidence of Sawyer’s fight in the bar, his effort to protect me, is more than I can bear.
I swallow, my mouth watering like a Pavlovian dog at the thought. Sawyer, on the other hand, keeps talking.
“Ah, you forget how I feel about you. If I didn’t, I might not call you back for months about that Asshole crack,” he says into the phone. It’s a private conversation. Once I’m sure I should not be hearing, but I can’t stop myself, curiosity drawing me in closer.
Especially when Sawyer says the next part, his chiseled forearms pulsing in rage.
“Good thing I love you.” He sighs, digging one large hand into his jeans pocket. “I’ll call you soon, okay? I’ll even let you psychoanalyze me for a few minutes.”
I didn’t know it’s possible to forget how to breathe, but it happens.
My chest compresses, as if a baby elephant has decided to dance and then take a nap on it, and my heart has dive-bombed into my feet, where it’s useless.
Jealousy—ripe and sweet—grips my throat harder than I would ever expect. I can’t move. Can’t wet my lips. Can’t inhale.
Especially when I see what Sawyer’s reaching for, his long fingers pulling a piece of fabric from his pocket, a distinct Hello Kitty print on the surface.
I gasp out loud at the sight of my underwear, wishing I could take it back.
But it’s too late.
The sound is enough. En
ough for Sawyer to hear.
He turns on his bare feet, his dark blue glare finally meeting mine. From the doorway, I can taste his shock.
But he says nothing to me. Not a word.
Instead, he leans into his phone, hissing low, his deep voice teetering on the edge of control.
“Dani?” He waits. “Let me call you back.”
He hangs up and the small move is enough to snap my senses back into place. My feet find the will to move again.
The baby elephant on my chest must have jumped off. Because now I’m running, my legs swishing through the air, moving fast in the direction of the door.
I don’t know why, but running seems the best idea and when I make it to the front door, I almost sigh in relief.
Until I feel arms around my waist, lifting me.
Sawyer’s arms.
He picks me up, twirling me around to trap me against the unforgiving wood, his blue eyes more heated than I’ve ever seen them.
Oh shit. I now remember everything.
Sawyer took me home tonight. Sawyer brought me here.
I woke up in Sawyer’s bed. And if the Hello Kitty pair of panties stuck in his back pocket is any indication, then I did a hell of a lot more than play ‘Kiss the Kitty’ with him tonight.
Chapter 9
NAOMI
Sawyer plants his hands against the door, above my head, leaning his long body into mine, and I can barely speak, let alone breathe.
Embarrassment mixes with the after-taste of tequila in my mouth.
Brows stuck together in a deep frown, I stare up at him, my back against the dark front door, as anger—in its frustrated attempt to hide my unease—finds its way to my tongue, too.
“I hate to ask a question I already know the answer to, but… Were you born this big of an annoyance or did it take learning to get to this point?”
“Come on, kitty. This level takes years and years of practice,” he says, his face as blank as a sheet of paper. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“Happy that you can tell time. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“You could have killed yourself just now blindly running through the apartment, you know,” he interrupts, emotion seeping into his features, their dark outlines tinged with hues of anger. “This is the city. Downtown. It’s not super dangerous, but it ain’t exactly Disneyland this time of a night. And you weigh a buck-twenty soaking wet. You can’t just get up and walk out onto the streets by yourself. Who knows who the hell is looking for a bad time outside these doors?”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling myself in this city. Trust me. I think I’d manage. And what are you so concerned about? I’d figure you’d want me out of here before daylight. Wouldn’t have guessed you let your girls stay the night.”
Sawyer pins me to the surface of the door with his eyes, lowering his hands into fists. His long brown-golden hair is disheveled, falling over his face. He’s so close I can feel the heat of his skin, and I will myself to keep calm, my heart raging out of control as I face him, trying not to show my fear.
I fail, shuddering as he runs a hand along my hairline, the unexpected touch soft—feathery over my skin.
“Let’s get a few things straight, kitty,” he says, leaning in even closer. “For one: You are not one of my ‘girls,’ as you put it. Two… If you were, I would not lay with you and then have you waking up in a separate bedroom. Not very gentleman-like. And three…” I can feel his stare blaze. “How little do you think of me to automatically assume that I would treat you like absolute crap? You were nearly concussed tonight. You fainted. Whether it was the sight of blood, the tequila or both, you completely went unconscious. You had me scared as hell there for a few minutes. And if you think I’m going to let you waltz right out of here in the condition that you’re in, then let me confirm that I will literally pick you up and drag you back to bed, if I have to.”
My heart stutter-steps in my chest as he says the words. Exhaling a shaky breath to bring it back to normal, I clear my throat, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “Dragging me back to bed doesn’t sound very gentleman-like, either.”
“I don’t give a damn right now,” he says, his voice more forceful. “I care more about your safety than anything. You shouldn’t be running and doing so much activity after hitting the floor like that. Not here. Hell, not anywhere. I won’t allow that.”
“So… You’re just worried about me leaving in the middle of night, then? We didn’t… I mean, you and I… We hadn’t…”
“Slept together?”
Waiting, he says nothing for a full five seconds, his silence driving me absolutely insane.
“No,” he states after a few tense seconds. “Of course we didn’t. Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. I just…don’t really remember much from tonight. And then I wake up here. In a bed. Your bed. And you had my underwear, and I…”
Pretty much hoped that we had. Hoped that maybe I was brave or bold enough to bed you.
Hoped maybe for once in structure-filled life that I’d broken the rules and slept with someone who couldn’t give a shit about them.
Sawyer grins as if he can hear my thoughts, the expression beautiful. I bite my lip. “These aren’t your underwear from tonight,” he declares. “These…were the ones you left at the party. You know, when you got up and nearly sprinted away… I laundered them myself.” He pulls them from his back pocket, handing them over to me. “If you don’t believe me, don’t take my word for it. Reach down into your pants and check yourself. I’m sure you’ll find the underwear you wore tonight completely intact.” The grin turns into a frown. “I don’t make moves on unconscious women.”
“No, you just hold them prisoner in your palace-sized bedrooms, is that it?” I shrug off the question as soon as it’s out of my mouth, needing space.
Needing to remember that when I cross this line with Sawyer that it just has to be about sex.
Just sex. Nothing more.
I push my body off of the door. “You know what, never mind. I’ll stay.” I start walking past him. “But you’d better have the good streaming services in that guest bedroom of yours or else I’ll have to…”
I barely make it past him before Sawyer stops me, his hand shooting out. He grabs my wrist, the small piece of my body minuscule in his hands, and it takes everything in me not to clasp my hand over it, to lean into more of his addictive touch the way I want to.
I glance up at him.
“I, uh, sorry about that,” he declares slowly as he lets me go, the words thick coming off his tongue. “Didn’t mean to grab you. I just…needed to talk. See, I didn’t get a chance to explain earlier…that some of my intentions with showing up at the bar weren’t entirely pure.”
“They weren’t?” I can’t hear my own words, my heart is thumping so hard.
Sawyer lifts his chin, his bearded jaw jutting in my direction, begging for my fingers. “No, they weren’t. You see, it’s sort of like this. I kinda…” He shrugs, his muscles shifting with the movement, catching my eye. “I kinda need your help. In fact, I know I do.”
My eyes go wide up at him, and I make an attempt to keep them on his face, instead of roaming down to his naked abs. I take a deep breath. “You need… my help?”
“Yes.” He blinks, still not moving.
“Not the kind of help involving electric shock therapy and men with stethoscopes in white uniforms?”
“I need help. It’s a woman…problem.” He finally backs up, removing his body from brushing mine, his fingers combing through his slightly curled hair. He stands a few feet away.
“Okay,” I take a deep breath, “well, for one: Did you have her take a pregnancy test just to be sure?”
“What?” He blinks. “No, of course not. Nothing like that.”
His voice is a whisper, a peppermint breeze across my already goose-pimpled
skin. I suppress a slight shudder as he says, “I need to know how not to have sex.”
“How not to have sex?” I ask, my skin growing cold. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You want to not have sex?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Again, yes.”
“Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not ill, for your information.” His blue eyes narrow. “And no, I’m not winding up on anybody’s death bed. And yes, my cock still works, so it’s not an impotency problem… It’s an emotional one.” His stare softens. He seems so unsure of himself right now, standing in front of me. He’s never unsure.
I wait.
“I don’t know how to just ‘be’ with women,” he continues, “I mean, without things turning sexual. And by ‘be,’ I mean as in ‘act.’ Behave. Spend time with. Do things that don’t include a condom or…putting whipped dairy toppings in places they wouldn’t normally go. You know…just be. Be regular. Normal. Turns out I’m not so good at being in the proximity of women without it being about bumping uglies. Something my…suspension,” he says carefully, “has taught me.”
He fishes inside his pocket, teasing me with his phone, the picture on the cover catching my attention. Not to mention the headline.
The Sawyer Kennedy Suspension: Cougars Second Baseman Takes Getting to Second Base Too Literally.
He flashes it in front of my face. “Doesn’t exactly make me feel like a man who knows how to control himself around women when I see headlines like that.” He shifts on his feet, and it is all I can do to keep staring into his ocean-colored eyes. They finally soften. And so does his voice. “The tabloids have a certain knack for making you feel like a piece of shit.”
I relent, sighing myself. “Well, to be totally upfront: It’s not like you’ve made their job at it really hard.”
There’s no use lying anymore.
But I almost wish I did. Because underneath those unbelievable, cerulean-like eyes of his lies a pain that’s almost palpable, and right now, I might do anything to watch it disappear.