Finding It (Losing It, #3)(24)

“Don’t go.”

He ran a hand over the stubble across his jaw.

“I have to. This isn’t a good idea.”

“I don’t want to wake up alone. If I don’t remember … I’ll … it will kill me. You don’t know …”

He was doing it again … studying me, and whatever he found made his lips curve into a frown.

“Jackson, please.”

“Okay. Just … just give me a second.”

I relaxed, the panic in my gut loosening. I listened to him moving around the room and then the bathroom, too tired to lift my head to actually watch.

After a few minutes, he flipped off the lamp beside the bed, dousing the room in darkness. I waited for the bed to dip, to feel the electricity that I knew would come from having him close to me.

I waited and waited, but it never came.

“Jackson?”

I heard something creak in the direction of the chair I’d been in earlier, and then his voice came from the same side of the room.

“Are you okay? Do you need something?”

“No.” I relaxed back against the mattress. “I just … thank you.”

“Anytime, princess.”

I closed my eyes, and I gave into the weight in my limbs, the pressure behind my eyes.

I’d thought my memories of that night would overwhelm me, that I would see him. But against all odds, I felt … safe.

With Hunt only a few feet away, I slept.





10


GENTLE LIGHT POURED through window, but it felt more like a full-out assault to me. My limbs were slick with sweat and tangled in my sheets. Just turning my head away from the light felt like an earthquake was rattling through my skull.

“Fu …” I didn’t even have the energy to finish the curse. I pulled the pillow over my head, and pressed my pounding forehead into the mattress, then forced my way back into oblivion for a few more hours.

When I woke next, the light was less severe, but my hangover was not. My stomach pitched and rolled like I was adrift at sea, and I barely had time to acknowledge that I was in an unfamiliar hotel and to find the bathroom before I was sick.

There were a few things in this world that I hated.

PMS.

Pennies.

Close talkers.

Fran Drescher’s voice.

People who say fustrating instead of frustrating.

And throwing up. Which I had done twice this week.

With my throat burning, my eyes watering, and my neck sweating, I lay my head feebly against the toilet seat. I rested against the cold porcelain for a few seconds before hurling again.

Life.

Maybe I was doing it wrong.

Again and again my stomach contracted, pushing and pulling until my organs felt like rubber bands. Long after my stomach was empty, I stayed hunched over the toilet with tears streaming down my face, too tired to think or move unless my body forced me to.

It must have been an hour before I felt the chill from the bathroom tile against my bare legs and realized I wore nothing but a man’s T-shirt. I thought back to the night before, but the last thing I remembered clearly was arguing with Hunt. Things after that went gray and then black, and even the things before it were fuzzy. I looked back down at my bare skin and around me at the unfamiliar bathroom. Had I gone home with Hunt? I’d certainly been hoping for that. At least, I think I had been. And perhaps the better question … if I had, where was he now? I stretched, searching for the telltale soreness of a night spent not sleeping, but my whole body was aching.

There had been another guy, the one before Hunt had showed up, but I couldn’t remember his name. Jesus, how much had I had to drink?

I’d worked long and hard in college to have gold-medal worthy tolerance, but for the life of me, I could only remember taking a few sips of alcohol the night before. I’d had hangovers from hell in the past, but none of my nights out had ever been so bad that I blacked out. This made absolutely no sense, especially considering I’d been determined to take it easy last night.

Despite my hollow insides, my stomach began to sink.

What if this wasn’t because I’d had too much to drink?

I remembered being frustrated with Hunt and going up to the bar. I closed my eyes, straining to remember. I recalled a snippet or two of conversation, and … one drink. I remembered having one drink. Maybe two, tops. I gripped the toilet and slowly pulled myself up to my feet. My legs shook like a newborn deer. I was f*cking Bambi, hoping the story would take an unusual twist, and I’d be the one facing a shotgun. Put me out of my misery.

Maybe then the pounding in my head would stop.

I dragged myself to the bathroom door and surveyed the hotel room.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”

As if my stomach gymnastics in there wouldn’t have alerted them to my presence already.

The bed was a mess, sheets and blankets twisted, falling off the mattress. A pillow lay on the floor. But I was alone … definitely. And there were no other things but mine in the room. But I couldn’t remember how I got here, and that made my headache seem like a soothing massage.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, and for a reason I felt, but couldn’t articulate, my heart beat faster and my hands shook.

I had done plenty of stupid things in my life.

I’d slept with people I regretted. I’d done things because everyone else was doing it. I’d made the worst possible choices.