A LOUD BANG PULLS ME OUT OF SLEEP, cutting through my groggy mind and falling like a hammer against my skull. Instantly, my head pounds as if it were a real hammer blow.
The acrid, vile taste of tequila is enough to draw the bile up my throat. I wince, my mind foggy, my body so heavy it feels like I’m trailing an anchor.
And I’m not even up yet.
Images flash through my mind, a montage of disjointed memories. Brandon’s smirking face, Kelly-Ann, or maybe Mikaela, shaking me from left to right, Cody pouring Patrón. I remember downing it with ease at first, and then… nothing. A black hole.
Another knock pierces my thoughts, and I panic.
How did I get home?
Did I come back alone?
Did I do something stupid?
I can’t remember, and the dull ache along my temples isn’t helping me focus. Neither are the shivers shaking my body under the covers, my skin clammy like I’m dying of the flu. I take a deep breath and slowly open my eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the window.
With the third thunderous knock, I tear myself off the pillow, standing on unsteady legs, the quick motion sending a sharp pang of pain through my skull. My stomach churns so hard I think I’ll hurl all over the place.
“I’m coming,” I rasp, my voice distant, the room spinning harder with every step. “I’m coming,” I try again, but even I can barely hear it.
“It’s open,” I hear Cody say in the hallway. “Go right in. She’s probably still asleep.”
I groan. I’d rather be left to wallow in my misery alone.
“Shit,” Brandon yelps. “You scared the hell out of me, man. Listen, I…” He trails off, his words heavy with guilt. “Finn told me what happened last night. I can’t remember a thing. Thanks for getting her home safely. How is she?”
“She was okay when I put her in bed.”
My heart lurches, swelling enough to break a rib, as mortification and relief wash over me. Cody brought me home.
He took care of me.
I study my shivering hands, frowning when I notice I’m wearing a hoodie. Cody’s hoodie. It’s soft, warm, and many sizes too big as it falls to my mid-thighs.
“I shouldn’t have drunk that much,” Brandon mutters.
“No, you shouldn’t have, and you shouldn’t have let Alan lock her in that fucking closet.”
A flashback hits me. I remember Alan smiling, his watch… his hand around my waist…
Feeling nauseous, I wrench the door open, staring at Cody across the hall. He looks like I feel—pale, dark circles under his eyes, and clearly still feeling the effects of last night’s Patrón.
“I guess she’s up now,” he says, arms folded over his chest. The way he looks at me sends my pulse racing. “You good?”
The tension between us resumes, more potent than last night. It’s evolved into a palpable energy, a whip of raw, bright red electric current coiling us tighter and tighter together.
I shake my head, prompting another jarring ache in my skull. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you inside,” Brandon says. “Come on, babe, I’ll make you breakfast. You look like shit.”
“Knock if you need the other side of the story,” Cody clips. Then he flicks his eyes to Brandon. “Don’t fucking lie to her.”
It’s not just how he says it—full of warning and threat—but how he roves my frame, his gaze burning into me like the thrill of a stolen kiss. It’s a hard-to-read look. It could be anything from concern to anger to desire. I can’t tell which, but I can hope.
His dark eyes linger where the hem of his hoodie meets my thighs and a flush creeps up my neck.
Does he want it back?
I tug at the collar to check there’s anything underneath. Thankfully, there is. The dress is bunched at my waist, but still there. I shove my hands under the hoodie to readjust the fabric, but Cody cuffs my wrist, kindling a smoldering fire within me.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice low and body tense. “Keep it.”
Does he likes how it looks on me, or does he recall dressing me in it last night? Just as I’m starting to float, an unpleasant realization surfaces, like a sharp, stinging slap across my cheek.
He doesn’t want the hoodie back because I wore it. Because it touched me… He’d bin it the moment I’d hand it back.
Another wave of regret, guilt, and hurt twists my stomach, the shame only amplified by my hangover. This is what Mia must’ve felt when Jake and I called her cootie Mia. Dirty. Humiliated. Unwanted.
Karma’s finally caught up with me.
I pinch my lips, swallowing the tears. I deserve to feel unwanted, humiliated, dirty… I deserve much, much worse, but it hurts so much.
Brandon shoulders past me, heading straight for my kitchen. He’s out of sight, but Cody’s not. I can’t make my vocal cords work. My eyes won’t meet his burning gaze. All I can do is retreat and close the door…
***
“Better?” Brandon asks after I emerge from the bathroom, showered and dressed.
He moves around the kitchen with ease, perfectly content playing cook as he flips eggs and bacon on the stove and pours me a glass of cold orange juice.
Even when I don’t deserve it, he’s always there for me. Apart from a very dark time last year when he was too busy. Too busy to hold me when I cried.
“Tell me what happened last night. I can’t remember anything after the fifth, maybe sixth shot.”
He dishes out breakfast, and the aroma of sizzling bacon and fried eggs roils my stomach as I sit at the kitchen island, my hands resting on the cool marble.
“You don’t?” He pauses the task, narrowing his eyes before finally adding shit in a whisper tinged with concern.
“Tell me about Alan,” I say, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. “Did he—”
“No,” he interrupts. “I swear, okay? He didn’t touch you.” His expression turns serious. “I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have let you play, but you sounded fine, you know? You made sense. You didn’t slur much.”
Relief comes first, quickly replaced by shame and regret. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I should’ve stayed home like I planned all along.” I down a few vitamin and pain pills, hoping they’ll alleviate the pounding headache. “So Alan took me to the closet but didn’t touch me?”
Brandon nods. “I spoke to him today. He said you slumped to the floor as soon as he closed the door… Cody kicked it down a minute later.”
“What? Why?”
“He went for a cigarette before you asked to play, and you weren’t at the table when he came back. I told him you were with Alan, and he got pissed.” A small smirk curves his lips. “I’ve seen Cody lose it a few times, and last night was easily top five. Alan’s got a broken nose and two black eyes to prove it.”
“He hit him?” I gasp, covering my mouth with a trembling hand. “No way.”
“He didn’t just hit him, Blair. He made a fucking punching bag out of his face. Colt stopped him before it got too ugly.”
My head spins. Cody coming to my rescue doesn’t make sense. He hates me. He could’ve left me there so I’d get exactly what I deserved, but… he didn’t.
The idea of him caring, even in the slightest, is comforting and unsettling in equal measure.
“He scooped you off the floor, and when I said you’re staying with me, he was squared up to break my jaw too.”
I narrow my eyes as he mindlessly spears the food on his plate. “What’s on your mind?” I ask, sensing something heavy hanging unspoken in the air.
“Nothing, just…” He trails off, his gaze flickering from me to the doorway. “Is there anything you want to tell me? You know I won’t judge.”
I don’t like the look on his face. “About what?”
He pushes his plate aside to lean forward. “You and Cody, what else would I mean? I was drunk last night, but not fucking blind, Blair. I saw how you squirmed whenever he looked at you. What’s the deal?”
My fork freezes midway to my mouth. “There is no deal. He’s barely said three sentences to me since I moved in.” That’s not entirely true, but I won’t tell Brandon about that night with River. It feels personal. A small secret between us. “Even if I was squirming, it takes two to tango, and you know damn well Cody wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
“That’s just it… I was drunk, sure, but I know what I saw. Every time I looked at Cody, his eyes were fixed on you. Every single time, Blair.”
The room feels suffocating as if the walls are closing in. My mind races with the memory of Cody’s dark eyes tracing my every move and dropping to my mouth time and time again. I thought I imagined it last night, but if Brandon saw it…
No. It can’t be. And even if it was, we were both drunk.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Brandon carries on talking about what happened last night, mentioning Colt and Rose, but my mind swirls around the same question: why?
Why did Cody care what happened to me? Why did he come to my rescue? Why did he bring me home? Why did he give me his hoodie?
The only person who can give me the answers is right across the hall, so when Brandon leaves two hours later, I pluck the courage to knock on his door.
“What did he tell you?” Cody demands after opening the door, his eyes scanning my face for something.
Annoyance, maybe.
He’s not moving. His towering frame barricades the entrance. “Let me rephrase that. How pissed off are you with him?”
“Why would I be? It wasn’t his fault. I asked him to let me play again.”
He furrows his brow. “No way you remember that.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true. Brandon doesn’t lie to me, Cody.” I meet his eyes, my stomach somersaulting when Brandon’s words come back.
He made a fucking punching bag out of his face.
“I have a question…” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the next words. “Why did you help me?”
His eyes narrow, scrutinizing my face for a second. “What do you mean why? You’d rather I left you there?”
“No, of course not,” I stammer, feeling stupid. “I’m grateful, but I don’t understand. You hate me, Cody.” I pause, waiting, but he doesn’t speak, leaving the ball in my court. “I came to say thank you, so… thank you.”
Since he doesn’t say anything back I make to leave. The embarrassing silence is all the invitation I need. But then he speaks again, his voice low and measured. “There needs to be balance in the world. We can’t all be vile.”
That stings. Hell, it hurts. The quick, purposeful once-over he gives me speaks volumes: he doesn’t mean Alan. He means me. I’m vile.
And he’s not wrong.
I don’t know what to say and can’t understand why he helped me last night. He hates me so much I can taste it in the air. I have no idea what to say, so with a nod, I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm, his grip tight, stopping me in place, the touch of his skin firing electric shocks through my nerve endings.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, his voice low, firm, and shaking with anger. “Brandon should’ve never let you go with Alan.”
There’s so much conviction in his tone I almost let myself believe he means every word.
“I should’ve stayed home in the first place, so yes, it is my fault.” I gently shrug him off, despite craving him closer than I already have him. “I don’t understand why you helped me.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You think hating you means I’d let some fucker hurt you?”
I don’t see why he wouldn’t. An eye for an eye.
“I deserved it, so—”
His hand grips my jaw so fast I yelp when he backs me against the opposite wall, towering above me. “Don’t ever say or even think you deserve to be raped just because you were a bitch your whole life,” he seethes, tone layered with a hint of darkness. “No one deserves that.”
He looks dangerous. Like he’s on the verge of lashing out, and I’m the first thing within reach, but there’s a softness in his eyes telling me he’d never hurt me.
My eyes prickle under the intensity of his gaze. With one look, he dismantles my defense wall, and I’m coming apart at the seams. My heart pounds and my mind unleashes its deepest locked-away fantasies, heading straight for the gutter. How would it feel to be at his mercy? Naked in his bed. Ready and begging for his touch. Would he be rough or gentle? Would he take control or let me lead?
I bite my lip, heat rising to my cheeks. He notices my reaction. His eyes darken, sending a delicious shudder to my core. He loosens his hand on my chin, and his thumb traces a slow path along my jawline, making me melt under his touch.
“You’re letting it define you,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “You’re letting your mistakes define you, B. Use them to guide you.”
I nod, trying to focus on his words, but all I can think about is how I want him to keep touching me, to explore my body with those rough hands. The chemistry crackles in the air, but he’d never cross that line, no matter how palpable our desire.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, and his eyes follow the movement. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I—”
“You’ve apologized a million times already.” He throws my words right back at me, his tone no longer soft or consoling but annoyed. “Stop apologizing. Start noticing the lessons and learn.”
He lets me go. Pushing away from the wall, he leaves me alone, breathless, and wanting more.
When I find enough strength to make it back into my condo, there’s a message waiting on my phone. One I desperately didn’t want to receive.
Dad: Early dinner on Friday. New client. Be ready at four. Two braids, no makeup, red Mugler dress.
And just like that, I know it won’t be like lunch with Mr. Anderson. His calm demeanor, steady voice, and respectful distance were a far cry from what I’ll face on Friday. Mr. Anderson was polite. Didn’t touch me. He was perfectly content talking about art, politics, and every other subject my father ensures I keep up to date with.
This time, I won’t be so lucky. After years of this, I can judge who I’ll be conquering based on my father’s instructions. Whoever his newest client (read: victim) is, he enjoys young women. Too young.
Illegal, hence two braids, no makeup, and the corset-styled red mini dress. It’s modest at first sight, but the semi-sheer panels and deep scoop neck make it very inappropriate, even for a woman with my cleavage. My small boobs look twice the size and almost bounce out with every step.
With a deep sigh, I text him back, before he has a fit.
Me: of course.
