Page 12 of Fever Dream
I had a rum and coke.
It got dark out.
Jesse wanted me to leave with him.
I told Jesse I could stay for one more drink.
And that I’d be leaving alone.
Then…
Nothing.
All I can remember is… blank. Not the fuzzy, underwater blur that comes with too many drinks. There is only dead space.
I rub my hands up my neck, over my face, and through my loose hair. Then I freeze. My hair was in a low, slicked-back bun last night.
Nothing makes sense. All I know is I need to leave.
I crawl to the end of the bed and swing my legs out in front of me before I pause and listen. My gaze shifts to the bathroom, its door ajar with all the lights off.
My head spins as my toes touch the cool tiled floor, but somehow, the chill grounds me in a moment where I feel totally out of control. I push to stand—and that’s when I glance through the glass patio doors and see it.
Or ratherhim.
Emmett fucking Bush. Outside on the balcony, asleep on the lounger. The sight of him brings me up short. Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Bare feet sprawled, one hand thrown over his shirtless chiseled torso, the other propped behind mussed, dirty-blond waves.
He’s got a James Dean vibe, but with more bulk to his frame.
His face? Golden but gritty.
His reputation? A total asshole of a manwhore if my brother’s stories are to be believed.
Not that I’ve seen much proof of Emmett being a stand-up guy. The times I’ve crossed paths with him have mostly been when I meet up with Theo at WBRF events. Emmett’s family owns a farm on the outskirts of the same small town where my mom and I live, but he’s not around much. Or we just don’t run in the same circles.
I’ve heard the snide remarks he’s lobbed at Theo after a tough loss. I’ve seen the way he carries himself, like he’s the king of the world. I’ve witnessed the swagger and the panty-melting smirk he pulls out when the moment suits him. And I’ve heard tales of his womanizing and endless string of hookups whispered around town.
Theo has always told me to stay away from him, and it’s a fair warning, rooted in brotherly love. But staring at Emmett now, I can understand why women ignore the caution signs surrounding him. Of course, they’d still have to endure his personality.
And it makes me wonder ifthat’swhat happened to me last night.
I stand there, staring through the glass at the asshole Adonis snoozing on the patio. My eyes narrow on his sleeping form as my glare intensifies. And I must stare hard enough that I wake him because his baby-blue eyes snap open and zero in on me.
For several seconds, we just stare at each other. My fear morphs into fury with each beat that passes. Enough that I find myself storming toward him, yanking open the sliding glass door, and pressing my foot against the end of his lounger. The motion pushes him back and the metal frame clangs threateningly against the glass barrier of his balcony.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
Emmett shoots up to sitting, hands held up like he’s under arrest.
My nostrils flare with every agitated breath, and he tilts his head subtly, as though facing a wild animal. “Hey, hey. I’m not playing at anything—”
“Did we hook up?” I blurt, needing to know what the hell happened during those missing hours.
His eyes skim over my body, but he appears repulsed by my question. “Fuck no. I wouldn’t do that.”
I cross my arms in a pathetic attempt to hide myself from his view, though they provide little coverage while wearing a bikini. “You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you.”
But beneath my arm I can feel the edge of my room key, the one I shoved in the cup of my top for safekeeping last night.
