Finding Home
Crazy in Love Series
The Problem with Crazy
Eleven Weeks
The Problem with Heartache
For my mother, because you really are there when I need you (and no, don’t worry, I don’t think you’re Stacey’s mum) x
November 12
I WAKE to the sound of a drill-saw attempting to channel through a concrete pylon right next to my head.
“Why?” I grunt. Only it sounds more like “arrggghhh”, even to my ears. Apparently being woken by a drill-saw seriously impedes my ability to form words. I reach my hand out and slam something in front of me, presumably the drill-saw, most likely a clock radio. Regardless, the action makes the noise stop. Thank hell.
Ugh. While the blast of noise has stopped, there’s still a ringing in my head of dizzy-making proportions. Not to mention that my tongue tastes like I’ve been eating road kill. Yuck.
I squint one eye open and then scrunch my lid shut immediately. Harsh yellow light screams through a window framed by black, floral curtains. What fresh hell is this? Who has opened my—
Shit.
I don’t have black, floral curtains.
I inch open my lid at a snail’s pace, this time preparing myself for the assault of light from the left of the room. Yep. Black, floral curtains still there.
I open my eyes wider and take in more of the room in front of me. Aside from the window, there’s a black bedside table with a digital clock on the top of it, right next to a red lamp. The floor is covered in a shaggy cream carpet, with a black skirt and a red lacy bra lying on top of it.
Oh, no. Please, please no …
I slowly raise the white sheet from my body. Yep, exactly as I’d suspected.
My black skirt and red bra.
This, of course, leaves only one question. But do I really want to look? Can I?
I rack my brain, trying to put together the pieces of the night before. There was the party at Joe’s. I’d gone there with Kate, because Dave and the band were playing. Michael. I saw Michael. Tequila. Lots of tequila.
I glanced down at my hand. Seven little lipstick lines mar its surface. One for each shot. At least I can remember that.
But how the hell did I get here? And, more importantly, where is here?
With my body still firmly positioned toward the left side of the room, I gently inch my foot behind me.
One inch: nothing. Just cool, crisp sheet.
Two inches: still nothing.
Three inches: so far, so good. Hopefully I’m alone. I just went to some stranger’s house, took off all my clothes, and slept solo in a random bed.
Four in—shit! My big toe makes contact with something warm, hairy, and distinctively human. I jerk my leg back toward me. My heart thuds in my chest, a million miles a minute. What the hell have I done? And who am I in bed with?
My mind races through the potential options. Grant, my ex, hadn’t been at the party, and he sure as hell didn’t have black, flowered curtains. There had been Joe, the older guy whose place the party was at. He’d definitely shown an interest in me, in particular when I’d told him I was eighteen tomorrow.
Today. Technically, I am eighteen right now.
“Hoooaaaawwwwr.” The creature behind me groan-yawns.
It’s like a bullet from a starter gun. I fling the sheets back and jump from the bed. I dive for my clothes, pulling on my underwear, throwing my shirt over my head and hoisting up my skirt like this is the Olympic event for sprint-dressing and I’m the lead contestant.
I grab my bra from the floor and thank the god of hangovers that my mobile is hidden underneath it, along with my flip-flops, which I promptly slip on.
“Hey,” a deep voice calls from behind me. A voice I don’t really recognise. It sounds like a million male voices, all rolled into one.
I freeze. Is it better to know and deal with it, or run and hide in shame?
Only there’s not really a question.
I’ll take the shame, thanks, my legs tell my brain as they sprint toward the door. I wrench it open and then slam it shut behind me, the mystery man calling something in my wake.
I’m in a living room with black leather lounges in front of me, and a giant flat-screen TV to the left. Windows with more of those hideous curtains let in cruel, natural light and next to them—thank you, thank you, thank you—a door, the kind of thick, wooden thing that clearly screams exit.
I dart toward it, screeching as I step on some small, sharp, red object in my path, twist the door handle, and then run out into the street. I slam it shut behind me and run, run down past the trees, the gravel of the unsealed road digging into my feet.
I run until my breath comes in short, sharp gasps that make my chest shudder. I run until water seeps from the corners of my eyes, streaking out past my temples, no doubt giving me that desirable panda effect.
I turn left, I run; I turn right, I run. I go straight through several intersections until the stitch in my side is stabbing and the throbbing in my head, merciless. I double over and rest my hands on my knees, trying to slow my breathing, to gain some semblance of control over my body. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea where I’ve been.
“One,” I whisper, holding my breath for the imaginary one thousand. “Two.” One thousand. “Three.” One thousand.
By the time I reach ten, my breathing is a distant cousin of normal, and I straighten up and try to think again.
I dial Kate’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I think about calling a taxi, but I don’t have my purse on me, and what would I say, anyway? Please pick me up from number four I-Have-No-Freaking-Clue Street? Do you accept pretend payment?
Think, Stacey, think. I massage my temple with my left hand, my right still clutching my phone and bra.
Noise. Head toward traffic, then you can work out what street you’re on, and try figure a way to get home.
I shut my eyes and concentrate on the noises around me. The chirping of birds—not helping. Traffic. The sound of cars, yes. Coming from … from the right. Yes. The right.
I pick up my pace, trying to ball my bra into a fist-sized package. The underwire makes it a little difficult, and for the first time in my life I curse myself for buying a bra that’s sexy instead of practical. Seconds later, I banish the thought from my brain and send up a mental apology to La Perla for ever thinking that way.
Still, it gets me thinking. Sexy lingerie. Something I wore in the hope someone would see it and now, judging by all the things that have happened so far this morning (read: naked wake-up call, strange man in bed next to me, slight ache between my legs, and lips that feel a little bee-stung, potentially from too much kissing from a guy who possesses a great deal of chin stubble), yes, someone did.
Did we even use protection?
My stomach swells and a surge of bile makes its way up my throat, rolling into my mouth. I double over and swallow it down, determined not to vomit in some random person’s rose bush. I may be hungover and doing the walk of shame—well, in my case, run of shame—but there is no reason I can’t have standards.
The rumble of an engine working its way down the street has me jumping over to the footpath to avoid imminent death. Nothing worse than having a one-night stand with a mystery guy and then being run over, on your birthday …
The engine slows down, chugging along behind me. I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the pavement, my pace fierce.
Still, the car moves along just behind me. My heart, which had slowed from the excessive running, starts to pick up again, building to a march. Is someone following me? Who?
What if it’s the guy from the house?
Rationally, I know the thought shouldn’t scare me. This guy has seen me naked.
/> What if it’s someone else?
I mentally change my list from having a one-night stand with a mystery guy and getting run over on your birthday as being the least impressive annual occasion ever, and replace getting run over with being stalked, kidnapped, and chopped up into tiny pieces.
Yep. Not panicking.
Frick!
I insert a small skip into my step, trying to seem as casual as an eighteen-year-old girl skipping can be. The car keeps pace just behind me.
My eyes scan the street till I see a small alley three buildings away. I could run down there. The car won’t be able to follow me. And the lane is even leading to my right, toward the sound of cars and hopefully familiarity.
I take a quick glance to my left—safety first—when the car engine stops.
It just stops.
Damn.
Before I can run, though, I hear my name. “Stacey.”
I spin around. The car following me is an old mint-green Valiant. And the guy sticking his head out the window I know only too well.
“Michael.” I give a rueful smile and turn my head away. I don’t know if the fact I know him makes this better or worse.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks.
Oh you know, just the walk of shame home from a guy’s house, one who I probably slept with and who, judging from the ache between my legs, I’d say has a medium to sightly above average-sized penis.
“You know, nothing much.” I shrug.
Michael furrows his brow, and his gaze lowers to my—oh my God I am not wearing a bra! I cross my arms over my chest, hoping like hell he can’t see my nipples. He grins.
He can totally see my nipples.
His brown hair is pulled back in a knot behind his head, his eyes fresh as bloody daisies. I could have sworn he’d had shots last night, too …
“How come you look so chipper?”
“Chipper?”
“Like, not hungover,” I clarify.
“Maybe because while I did take my top off on-stage last night, I did it after two shots of tequila, not seven?”
Oh. Did that mean I …?
“The look on your face.” Michael laughs softly.
I huff out a breath and narrow my eyes. “See ya.” I flip him the bird and keep walking. Like I need anyone else making me feel like crap today. I’ve done a fine job of that myself.
“Wait! Wait.” The car door squeaks open and Michael’s feet thud behind me, then his hand is on my shoulder. It’s a warm hand. Big. Steady. “I’m sorry, Stace.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I shrug him off.
“Hey, I mean it.” He spins me round to face him. His deep, brown eyes aren’t mocking; they just appear concerned. “Can I give you a ride?”
I look back at his car. I know being in a confined space with this guy isn’t a good idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Thanks,” I mumble. He leads me back to the vehicle, opening the passenger-side door with a grand flourish, then slides over the bonnet and jumps in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, we’re pulling out from the curb, heading toward the direction I’d thought was the main part of town.
The car smells like McDonald’s wrappers and male body odour, no doubt not just Michael’s, but also his other band buddies’, too. Papers litter the floor at my feet, and a collection of six empty coffee cups, all stacked into one another, litter the two-hole cup-holder.
I blink, and the second my eyes close an image flashes into my mind: voices yelling at the party. Vodka. Tequila. Beer. Lips I don’t recognise pressing against my own.
Ugh.
“I love this song.” Michael leans forward and swivels the dial on the radio. I swallow down my guilt. A track by the Rolling Stones blares out of the car’s crackly speakers, a song about sinners and saints.
Two guesses which of those I feel like today …
We reach the main part of town in quite a short time. It’s crazy how I’d been so close, yet so far away; I guess that’s the beauty of suburbia. Everything can look the same, sound the same, despite the subtle Stepford Wives-style differences.
“So, you had fun last night?” Michael asks, not taking his eyes off the road, which I appreciate. I’m a terrible backseat driver.
“Mmhmm,” I reply. “You?”
“It was amazing. Best night, Stace.” He looks at me again, and this time the wheel swings along with his gaze. The car bumps the gutter and I grab the door as Michael gives a quick shake of his head and swerves back to the road.
“Amazing? Why? Something special happen?” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flick from the road to Michael, then back to the road again. His face is etched in concentration as he bites his lip. I can’t help but stare at them for a moment.
Unfamiliar lips.
I swallow down the sick still lurking in my throat. Why did I drink so much?
“Well, I just … I don’t know. I mean, it was fine, I guess. You don’t … remember anything about it?”
Isn’t that the million-dollar question?
“Just you and the band sounding great,” I try, flashing him what I hope is a convincing smile.
“Nothing else?” He narrows his eyes.
“Oh, you know. Just the usual party stuff.”
“Huh.”
Crap.
“Tell me, what’d I do? Did I make an idiot of myself?” I grab at Michael’s shirt and he looks at me, then jerks the wheel back to the right to avoid us running into a little old lady who is taking out her recycling bin.
“It’s … nothing.”
But his face says it’s everything.
Seconds later he shakes his head, as if he were shaking away some bad thought. “So what are our plans for today?”
“Huh?” I’m starting to sound like a broken record.
“Today. Your birthday.” He speaks the words slowly, like I am a small child.
My birthday? How the hell did he remember that?
“You … remembered?”
“Stacey, we’ve known each other since the start of high school.” Michael sighs. “Of course I remembered.”
He does have a point. I furrow my brows, trying to remember when his birthday is.
“June?”
He doesn’t so much as hesitate. The damn bastard knows exactly what I’m on about. “Not even close.”
“January?”
“Uh-uh.” Michael gives a wicked grin. “It’s not a competition. Anyway, what are we doing to celebrate?”
“I was just going to have dinner with my family …” After I go home and try and scrape the sluttiness off me.
“Right.” Michael nods. Only, instead of turning right, as he’d been indicating and waiting at the lights to do, he swerves back into the traffic, going straight ahead. My heart lurches and I tighten my grip on the door.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?” He flicks me a quick glance.
“Where are we going?”
“Birthday stuff.” He smiles. His lips curve up, dimples crease both his cheeks, and it’s so hard for me to ignore the little flames sparking in my belly. Stupid, idiotic Stacey. This is Michael. And he isn’t interested.
I smile and gaze out the window as we drive. We leave the roads of the city and head out to the streets that lead to the cliff-tops. Michael’s car chugs along, The Beatles blaring out the radio now as we cruise past green grassy knolls, sheer cliff face, and wide, blue ocean, with specks of white flaring up in the wind.
It’s so beautiful out there—the sun shining down, highlighting the bold colours—that I can’t help it. I wind down the window—a full-body activity, no doubt due to the age of the car—and shove my head and shoulders out of the car. The wind whips my face, stripping away the shame and embarrassment I felt after my activities the night before. This is so real.
This is free.
I let the cool sea breeze flick my hair behind me and lick my lips, the faint taste of salt playing in my mouth. My lids slowly shut as I tilt my head
up toward the sun’s rays. For one moment, I’m alive.
“You’re …”
My eyes fly open and I pull myself back into the car, turning to Michael, a grin on my face. “Yeah?”
Silence stretches out between us, as wide as the ocean in the distance.
“Nothing.”
I turn my head back out the window and give a sly smile. I don’t know what “I” am, but I like the way he said it. Even if I know I shouldn’t.
We pull over in the seaside village, lined with touristy shops. This is the place where people come to holiday, and the local businesses reflect that, with the overpriced clothing boutiques, fancy day spas, and fish-and-chip shops where you can choose between grilled with herb butter or stuffed with frog’s legs or something, instead of just your usual battered or fried.
Michael pulls the car to the curb and switches the engine off. He unhitches his seatbelt and runs around to my side of the car to fling open the door before I can so much as undo my own restraint.
“Thanks.” I smile up at him. His eyes gleam.
I stand and hop out of the car after stuffing my bra in a corner on the floor but taking my phone with me. Something warm stirs in my stomach, and I try hard to push it down. I’ve pretended like this for years. What’s one more day?
The sick feeling rises again. Bile claws at my throat.
“Are you okay?” Michael places his hand on my lower back. I double over, grabbing my stomach one more time and fight the wave of sickness that attempts to battle its way out of my mouth. Swallowing it down is so very acidic and disgusting, but spewing in broad daylight in front of hundreds of tourists—some of whom could be hot—is undoubtedly worse.
“Fine.” I straighten myself up.
“You look …” Michael pauses, and his eyes focus on my face. He jerks back his hand from behind me, as if he’s been caught stealing lollies from a jar. “… pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Michael starts walking toward the beach, already packed with tourists, despite the cool spring breeze. I race to follow, practically tripping over my feet in the effort. He passes the flags and heads toward the rocks, where a couple canoodles in the sand.
Eleven Weeks Page 1