Twisted (Never After #4)(56)

My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.

That’s the first thing I notice.

Then, slowly, the thick, aching throb of my head starts to wake me up. Pulsing, beating, heavy stabs of pain that make me feel like someone hit me with a giant boulder, then ran me over with a tractor tire for good measure.

Groaning, I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, not wanting to open them. If I open them, then the vertigo might have a chance to set in before I even stand up, making my world spin and my vision blur until I puke.

Oh, man.

The back corners of my mouth turn sour, like I sucked on a warhead without the sweet aftertaste, my stomach tossing and turning violently even though I’m making sure to stay as still as possible in my bed.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, and I try to slowly jerk them free, my muscles tensing and releasing as I gingerly move my body and try to assess just how incredibly hungover I must be.

How much did I drink yesterday?

Finally, I get the courage to peel my eyelids apart, rolling to my side and adjusting to the bright light of the morning. Rays of sunshine splash across the room, and small kaleidoscopes of color reflect on a glass of water sitting on my bedside.

I scrunch my brows and then immediately regret the decision when it makes the pain in my head even worse.

But I don’t remember bringing in a glass of water.

Swallowing around my cotton mouth, I push through the nausea and the general feeling of having died and reach out to grab the glass, the need for a drink overriding the fear of moving.

I take a small sip, my body crying in relief when it hits my tongue.

And this is why I don’t drink outside of a glass of wine or champagne in social settings.

It’s literally never worth it the next morning.

I’m a lightweight, and even worse, there hasn’t been a single time in my entire life when I haven’t gotten the hangover blues. I’m an overthinker on an average day, but add in the depressive episodes after binge drinking, and I’ll convince myself that I should never go in public again, simply from ruminating over all the words and conversations I may or may not have had.

Regret runs thick through my veins, and I look for my phone, my eyes snagging on a piece of paper instead. There’s a note set right next to the pain reliever, and I grab both, downing the pills without a second thought.

I go through everything that happened last night, reeling as I try to remember every single word that I’d said since we got back from my father’s house and I raided the liquor cabinet in Julian’s home.

Groaning, my hands fly to my face, my nails digging into my forehead as if trying to claw the ache away, the leftover embarrassment from everything that happened last night making me want to wither away until I’m nothing.

He must think I’m the stupidest girl on the planet. And that’s probably because I am. Who else would find themselves in hell and make themselves at home with their quintessential captor? Even worse than that, I felt comfortable. Like I belonged. Like I could sit there forever, drinking Julian’s expensive whiskey and watching him force a scowl so he doesn’t break character and smile, and I could never care about anything else again.

But that was just the alcohol talking, and things always look a little different in the daylight.

I pick up the note, rubbing the sleep from my eyes to clear my vision. The nausea gets worse before I even read the words, because I just know it’s from him.

Take the pills. Drink the water. Take a shower.— J





Rolling my eyes, I place the note back down on the table. So damn bossy. Like I wouldn’t have done all those things anyway. Flashes of last night filter slowly through my brain, and while I should probably be thinking about how close he got to crossing a line we absolutely should never cross, instead I can’t stop thinking about how he said he’d introduce me to his mother.

I can’t lie and say I’m not intrigued at the idea of meeting her. To be honest, I had half convinced myself he was a weird anomaly, just showing up on earth as a raging asshole from birth with no parents to give him love. I try to imagine what his childhood looked like, since he was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing, but I just can’t picture him as a carefree little boy with innocence thrumming through his veins and giggles pouring from his lips.

Despite everything, a tendril of excitement grows inside me. I know I’ll never work up the courage to ask about his family again, not now that I’ve sworn off drinking forever, so I hope that he meant what he said last night.

Honestly, it’s the least he can do after forcing me to be his wife and then running away without letting me come.

I grab my phone, unlocking the screen, hope inflating like a balloon as I see a new notification, thinking that maybe it’s Riya with some more good news.

Then the flash of guilt hits because it’s the first time I didn’t want it to be Aidan.

Doesn’t really matter, I guess, because there’s nothing from him anyway.

Again.

The cracks in my heart fracture just a bit more at the loss of him in my life. Regardless of the fact that I’ve done things with Julian I can’t take back, I still love Aidan, and I still want to find someone who will break me free of Julian’s grasp and let me live my life with Aidan instead.

I switch over to the unopened message.

Riya: We still on for brunch next week on Sunday morning?