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When did a marching band move into Susan’s head? The question set off another round of stomping against her skull. She wanted to wake up, but exhaustion weighed down everything, including her eyelids. Processing her thoughts felt like dragging them through molasses.
She heard noises in the background. A voice? It sounded like half a conversation.
Was that her name?
“Don’t force it.” The voice was distant. And male. And sexy, in a confident, careless kind of way. And unfamiliar. “Take it easy.” And right next to her, instead of miles away.
As each realization clicked, her panic grew, until the marching band was joined by a thunderstorm. She summoned her strength, to force her eyes open. Realization slammed into her sluggish brain. This wasn’t her room. She didn’t know whose it was, but those were ugly curtains.
“It takes time to shake the fog.” The guy sitting in the chair next to the bed, studying her, was so completely a stranger, it wasn’t funny.
Adrenaline slammed through her veins, kicking up the bedlam in her skull. She jolted upright and scooted away until her back hit the wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Who the hell are you?”
“Andrew. You don’t remember.” He sounded as if he expected it.
She dug through the mire, searching for snippets of the familiar. There was a guy in the steakhouse. Irritating. Wouldn’t go the heck away. It wasn’t this dude, though. “No.” The answer came out more timid than she intended. Why weren’t the memories there?
His smile was sympathetic. The right corner of his mouth didn’t pull up all the way; it collided with a scar running from his ear down to his jaw. He was kind of cute. And a little terrifying, given she didn’t know who he was. “Best guess? GHB. Rohypnol. A drug along those lines. And I’m guessing you didn’t take it willingly.”
“Like, date-rape drugs?” Her stomach churned, and acid surged into her throat. “What did you do to me?” Better question—how was she going to get out of here?
He held up his hands and leaned away. “Whoa. Not me. Some douchenut who was bugging you.”
“Then why am I here with you?” Slivers of the evening struggled to surface, and they matched his story, but she didn’t trust them. Not when she couldn’t think straight.
“You sounded like you needed a hand, so I stepped in. We told him I was your brother.”
“And then you brought me to a hotel? Is this Deer Valley?” At least, if he’d assaulted her, he chose one of the most expensive resorts around. How... classy? She was still clothed. Her shoes were missing, but everything else was intact. And no pain down there. Not that she had any idea what that would feel like. None of this made sense.
“It’s The Chateaux. I didn’t want anyone making the assumptions you’re making before I could call your sister and have her come get you.”
Maybe this was a hidden-camera show. Or The Twilight Zone. Or the most screwed up dream she’d had in ever. “What makes you think I have a sister?”
“Because she talks about you. Susan Rice. You’re eight years younger. Only sibling she has who likes her.”
“Everyone knows that. Half the town is familiar with our family drama.”
He chuckled.
“What?” Frustration joined the churning inside.
“Mercy told me you were stubborn. You’re a lot like her. I don’t know how you’re thinking through the drugs. Low dosage, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Mercy. Told. Me—”
“You didn’t call her Melissa.” Susan was coming further out of the fog, and her logic believed this man. Andrew. His name sounded familiar. Did he give it to her earlier?
He raised his left brow. She wasn’t sure if the single raise was on purpose, or because of the scarring. “She hates that name,” he said.
“So you might know her. Maybe.”
“You were a lot more trusting in the steakhouse. Good drugs. If it makes you feel better, you can walk out the door right now. I promise I won’t stop you. You can take the elevator down to the front desk and call the police and Mercy. She’ll vouch for me. Fuck.” He lifted his butt off the chair, reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet and a phone, and tossed both on the bed. They landed near her without a sound. “You can call from here if you want, and see I am who I say I am.”
She opened the leather wallet, alternating her gaze between him and it. His driver’s license was from Atlanta and said he was Andrew Newton. She definitely knew that name. Why? The logo on his business cards was a silhouette of a curvy woman with horns and a halo. The company name was Smut Central. That was why he was familiar. Sure enough, his title was CEO and Lord High God of Smut. If he was lying about his identity, it was the most elaborate setup ever.
“Mercy didn’t answer when you tried to get a hold of her,” she said.
“Not the first time. You told me she turns off her phone.”
“She does.” Why couldn’t Susan remember any of that?
“I left her a message. Told her I met some groupie, who loves my work, in a bar, and we came back here and fucked like bunnies, and now you need a ride.”
Her face heated to scorching. “You didn’t.”
“No. I told her to call me A-sap. I won’t share details unless you want help filling in the blanks. She got back to me right before you woke up. She’ll be here in about”—he glanced at the clock—“five minutes.”
“Oh.” Susan wasn’t sure what else to say. Her head pounded. She desperately wanted to curl up and go to sleep. Things barely made sense, despite the explanation. Every time she tried to grasp a thought—a flash from earlier tonight—it slipped away. Sometimes she caught the tail, but others vanished in a poof. “Thank you.”
He waved a hand, and turned his gaze away. “Yeah. If you’re okay, Ima watch TV till Mercy gets here.”
She nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her anymore. With her heart rate returning to normal and the mental haze slowly lifting, it sank in how much her head hurt. Especially when she tried to wrap it around the situation. What would have happened if he hadn’t been there? Didn’t know Mercy? Hadn’t cared one way or another? Would Susan be waking up with far fewer clothes, in a not-so-kind stranger’s bed?
Her gut lurched. Bile surged into her throat. She stumbled from the bed, and her legs threatened to give out. She bolted for the bathroom. She kicked the door shut behind her and reached the toilet, before the contents of her stomach evicted themselves. The heaves continued after there was nothing left to vomit, and she knelt in front of the porcelain, hating that she had the extra-hot salsa on her nacho burger. The thought made her want to hurl again.
Tears and sweat streamed down her cheeks. She was so stupid to let this happen. A nagging voice reminded her it wasn’t her fault, but she knew better. Always be alert.
Someone knocked nearby, and seconds later, she heard the squeak of hinges. Then Mercy’s voice. She and Andrew spoke in hushed tones, so Susan couldn’t make out the words.
Susan waited until she was sure she wouldn’t puke again, then extracted herself from where she knelt on the floor.
“You alive in there?” Andrew’s question carried through the bathroom door.
“Yeah.” The word rasped out of her throat. She looked in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes stared back, studying blotchy cheeks and swollen lips. Gah. She was a wreck. She splashed cold water on her face. Now she was a drowned wreck, but her skin was cooler.
When someone pushed into the room, she whirled, startled. Andrew didn’t so much as twitch at her appearance. He held out two cups. “Water. Don’t swallow it; rinse your mouth out. Mouthwash. You know how that works. When the nasty vomit taste is gone, drink some water. Tiny sips. No gulping.”
Mercy moved around him—the most welcome sight Susan had seen all night. She rubbed Susan’s back. “You okay?”
“No.” More tears threatened, and Susan swallowed them back. She turned away, cups in hand, and followed Andrew’s instructions, not trusting herself to speak. The mouthwash burned, and she fought her gag reflex. It was pathetic. She didn’t care.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to wash up. Come out when you’re ready,” Mercy said.
Susan closed her eyes and focused on calming down. Knowing security sat outside the door helped. When she was ready, she headed back into the main room.
Mercy sat next to Andrew on the bed, their heads bowed together as they talked in hushed voices. They looked comfortable, as if this was how they spent every free night. According to Mercy’s stories, they had, when they were younger. The two toured a lot of South America and Europe together, in their late teens and early twenties. It was how they met.
A pang of envy knocked behind Susan’s ribs. For Mercy’s experiences. That she had this close friend here and an amazing fiancé at home.
Andrew stood and grabbed Susan’s Converse from the floor next to him. He handed them over with a sympathetic smile.
She was grateful he didn’t say anything, because she didn’t have a lot of brainpower for talking; she used most of it doing up the laces on her shoes.
Mercy moved to stand next to Andrew. She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. See you Monday?”
“I’ll be there.” He met Susan’s gaze. “Take care of yourself, Suzie-Q.”
The nickname made her cringe, but a portion of her liked the quirk of his mouth when he said it. She returned the smile.
Moments later, she dropped into the passenger seat of Mercy’s battered Honda. The worn leather was already warm from the heater. With comfort around her, reality threatened to overwhelm Susan again, reminding her how bad things almost got, and she shuddered. “Can I stay with you guys tonight?” She managed to talk without her voice cracking.
“Of course. Don’t want to face Dad?”
Susan frowned at the implication. She didn’t like the nudge that, while Mercy and Dad were on speaking terms after years of being out of each other’s lives, there wasn’t any trust between them. The thought gave Susan a new focus, and she was grateful for that. “He’s in Seattle.”
“Oh. You know you’re always welcome. Do you want to tell me what happened?” Mercy rested a hand on Susan’s knee.
“Not yet. I need time.” Susan saw Mercy’s brow furrow. “Nothing bad. Not that bad. But I need to process.” She had no idea how, but she’d figure it out. “Thank you for coming to get me at— Holy wow. Is it really three in the morning?”
“Of course. You’ll be more careful next time, won’t you?” Mercy clamped her jaw shut and frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that. You shouldn’t have to be. Whatever happened wasn’t your fault.”
“I know.” Susan didn’t believe it, though, and her sister’s slip added to the doubt. When they got inside Mercy and Ian’s house, Susan mumbled goodnight and stumbled off to her part-time room.
She fell into bed without taking off her clothes. The soft quilt and feather pillow hugged her, and the scent of fabric softener squeezed with comfort. For a moment, her head felt like it might roll away, but equilibrium returned quickly. She expected to sleep for ages, based on the exhaustion raking her bones.
She rolled onto her side and watched the shadows warp and twist across the textured wall and bleed into the burgundy accent. Snippets of the evening popped in and out of her mind, but not the ones she expected. Instead of terrifying her, the conversations with Andrew kept her company; his compassion, irritation, and sense of humor.
She flopped onto her back and studied the vaulted ceiling, trying to make out where the apex vanished in the shadows. As night gave way to the gray of the oncoming morning, she couldn’t get the thoughts of Andrew out of her head. Her knight in shining armor was her sister’s porn-friend. The guy who helped Mercy shed her inhibitions and discover what life was really about when she was Susan’s age.
It wasn’t the first time Susan wished she could live that experience without having to surrender her friends and family—she could never abandon this life without caring, the way Mercy had—but the thought hit harder and lingered longer tonight. It would be nice to find a friend like Andrew, without having to go to South America to do so.