Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2)

by Marlow, Francesca

  But curiosity always gets the better of me, and I can't stop myself from casting glances back over my shoulder to take another look. He’s chatting to his friends, but his stare has not left me. I’m torn between feeling intimidated and intrigued. This is a problem, though. A guy shows me the smallest scrap of interest and I allow myself to become carried away with the moment. I know I should stop, but I can’t help but be drawn to him. He’s tanned and muscular, just my usual type, but it’s the tattoo poking out of his white top that captures my attention the most. It snakes around his neck as if suffocating him. I think back to the pain I suffered getting a tiny fish etched into my stomach and know that this guy must have a high pain threshold. Strength on the outside doesn’t mean strength on the inside, though. He’s probably a total arsehole and usually my bullshit meter would be going through the roof, but not tonight because tonight I am no longer Paris Hemsworth, who sucks at being a daughter, a friend and a graduate. I am a risk taker. I do not fear and I will stand out from the crowd.

  Tonight I am going to have fun.

  Taking a deep breath, I saunter over to the guy, grab his bottle and drain the remaining beer from it. Slamming it down on the ledge next to us, I press my finger to his lips and flash him a cheeky wink. His expression never changes but the depth of his brown eyes whirl with what I’m hoping is the same desire I am feeling. Lacing our hands, I pull him towards the dance floor. This is completely crazy behaviour, but I can feel that thrill tingle roar to life, making my nerves stand on end, just like I did with Rob.

  Spinning around, I lean into his ear and shout so he can hear me. “Dance with me.”

  I expect some conversation – a smirk, a chuckle or something – but I am caught off guard when his hand snatches at the back of my head and pulls me into a rough kiss. After my initial tense, I quickly evaporate underneath him, allowing our tongues to slide to the rhythm of the beat. It’s not like any other kiss I’ve had before and it sure as hell doesn’t taste like it.

  What is the fuck is that?

  It becomes more prominent and more disgusting by the second. I’ve never tasted anything like it before. I try to pull away to question him, but his grip on my head is too tight. I rack my brain for a few moments but as I swirl my tongue around, I catch something hard and powdery. It makes me feel a little uneasy, not to mention queasy. Then the penny drops.

  It’s a tablet.

  I freeze the fuck up, unsure what to do as the panic sets in. I don’t do drugs. I’ve never done drugs. It’s something Izzy and I have always felt strongly about. Then again, I’m not strong. I ache with hurt and the desperate need to be someone else. Maybe this is the perfect opportunity for me to bury all that pain for just one night. I’ve tried everything else and it never goes away. Sure, it subsides for a while, but it’s always there.

  I don’t know when exactly I make a decision, but the internal argument in my mind loses out to the instinct of my gut and I swallow down hard. I figure things can’t get that much worse.

  A few tunes in and the ecstasy is deliciously flowing through my veins. I already forget my thoughts. The incredible sensations my body is experiencing allow me to relax fully for the first time in years. As we bump and grind, my confidence increases tenfold and my sexual desire flies through the roof. I sway my hips from side to side, being driven crazy by his barely-there teasing touches or close ear growls. The music surrounds me in a whole new way and I feel elevated, spaced out. I see the world in a new light. The pain has gone and I’m floating on cloud nine.

  I have no idea how many hours I spend draped from him, but when we exit the club, my eyes wince against the bright sunlight. It stings like a bitch and I can barely hear anything for the loud ringing in my ears. I’m reminded of his arm, tightly placed around my waist and despite the thumping in my head, I hear him snarl, “You’re coming back to a party with me."

  There’s no question in his request. I have no choice. He’s taking me, and honestly, I don’t care. The way I’m feeling, I would go anywhere with anyone willing to show an interest. Resting up against him, a tipsy grin stretches across my uncontrollable chattering jaw. “You want to ride there?”

  He laughs. “You’re fucked up. I can’t believe how wasted you are.”

  Stumbling backwards, I squint. “I’m serious. I have a bike." I fumble in my jacket pocket for the key and dangle it in front of his face with an ‘I told you so’ smug look. He doesn’t think twice as his arms quickly find my arse, gripping hard and lifting me from the ground.

  “Let’s fucking go, Rider."

  Wrapping my legs around him, he carries me down the cobbled alleyway. His biceps are taut, caging me close to his body, his breath close to my face. Every inch of my body is tingling. I’m fucking aroused. I can see the hunger in his eyes and I know he is, too. He drops me to my feet beside my bike and I try to find my footing in my heels. That’s when I hear a loud voice shout from behind us.

  “'Ere, where are you going, Daggs?”

  My ears prick like a pixie’s. Daggs… That’s his name. Interesting choice. He roars back, lowly, “None of your business. See you there."

  I jump forward when he slaps my arse cheek. “Well, well, well. I’m fucking impressed.” He snarls into my neck, whilst tugging my hips from behind, his growing erection digging into my arse. “Let's see just how good you are." He playfully nips at my neck before hopping on. As I try to focus on him and the bike, I’m lost for any sense of reasoning not to do this. It’s dangerous and reckless, yet in a split second, I’ve straddled the damn thing and fastened my helmet.

  My last recollection of the night is laying flat out on the bed next him, where he passed out, not long after finding another bottle of vodka. My fingertips crawl up the wall while my eyes fixate on the little black spiders running around everywhere. I try to count them, finding a weird sort of comfort in my feet constantly rubbing together; enjoying the therapeutic feel until eventually I drift off to sleep.

  Paris Hemsworth who?

  Twenty-Two

  16th July 2003

  Entering the front door, I keep my head low and tiptoe across the hallway in an attempt to avoid an encounter with Mum and John. The last thing I need is a blazing row over where I spent last night and most of today. The pain in my head is unbearable, my feet are throbbing and my muscles ache. I can't believe how much energy I exerted last night. I was like the freaking Duracell Bunny. I feel like I got hit by a ten tonne bus.

  Hearing their voices coming from the kitchen in the back of the house, I decide to creep up the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible. Slipping into my bedroom, I prop myself against the back of the door, letting out a noticeable sigh of relief. I made it to my sanctuary without being spotted. At least here I may get ten minutes to try and make myself look somewhere near human before they realise I'm home. I'm surprised they didn't hear the motorbike pull up. I'm even more shocked that I managed to ride the damn thing at all. I know I’ve been totally irresponsible, but I felt like I had no choice. I needed to get home somehow and there was no way I was letting Daggs bring me back.

  Nausea bubbles away in my tummy as I fling my heels to one side and cautiously perch on the edge of my stool in front of my dressing table. It's exactly how I left it, with torn up pieces of gown slung everywhere. I hesitate for a moment, dreading the first glimpse of myself in the mirror. No matter how awesome I felt at the peak of last night, I'm not sure it was worth what I'm suffering from now. I can only presume this is the stage I've heard many students refer to as 'the come down' and now I know why. I’m hurtling back to reality with a bang.

  When I finally pluck up the courage to take a look at myself to assess the damage, I'm pleasantly surprised that I don't look like the shitty version of death I feel like. I know I had a good time last night, but I'll be damned if I can remember the majority of it. The details are lost in a hazy cloud. Maybe that's where they would be best left.

  As I move my head closer to the mirror, I rest my elbows o
n the top and gently rub my temples with my fingertips. I try to concentrate, focus on narrowing down some finer details from the night before. Retracing the vague steps over and over in my mind, I become lost in thought.

  Slashing the gown.

  Dressing to party.

  Hitting up a rave club.

  Meeting Daggs.

  Going back to a party.

  And…

  And…

  Oh my god!

  I gasp with disgust when a flash image from last night strikes my memory like a lightning bolt. As my hand jerks to my mouth, I struggle to stop myself from vomiting on the spot.

  That did not happen.

  Please, tell me I did not do that.

  While I continue to glare at my reflection, I can feel the entire colour drain from my cheeks. I'm staring at a ghost as the mental images come flooding back to me tenfold. Madly shaking my head, I utter repeatedly, "No, no, no, no."

  I continue to sit for a few more minutes, trying to convince myself it was a hallucination. I did plenty of that last night and this memory is just that – a figment of my imagination. It has to be. It couldn’t be true. I would never do that. Then again, I wasn't myself last night. Paris Hemsworth did one and I was left with some crazy alter ego.

  The more vivid the image becomes in my head, the clearer his face appears. I can see the tilt of his head and I can practically taste his lips on mine.

  Oh. My. God!

  I don't know how the hell it happened, but somehow I remember having sex with a man and not the one who took me to the party. But who was he? Who?

  "Fuck, Paris. What is wrong with you?" I snap at myself in frustration. "Name. Think of it. Ma... Cl... Ell…"

  The last attempt at a guess rolls around on my tongue as my hand drops freely from my mouth.

  “Ethan,” I whisper, my eyes searching the floor while my hand slides over my arm, scrubbing at the memory. “Who the fuck is Ethan?”

  Crystal clear images start to fly around my head like a meteor shower. I had sex with a guy called Ethan. The recollection fires a new mortifying swirl of nausea in my stomach. I had sex with a guy called Ethan, pressed against a sink, in the bathroom, at a house I’ve never been to before, with random people I’ve never met. Jesus Christ, the drugs must have temporarily stolen my sanity.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I curse at the same time as my forehead drops towards the top and bangs hard. The humiliation and remorse at my actions sends my head shooting up my idiotic arse. Ethan must think I am such an easy ride. Gently drumming my head over and over against the dresser, I start to whimper out the words I can't seem to put into any kind of order in my mind.

  What was I thinking?

  I know it wasn't the right thing to do, but as I wipe the hair away from my face and look back up at myself in the mirror, I know the me last night wasn't the me that's stood here right now. No matter how good it felt at the time.

  I reach over to a pack of baby wipes, roughly pull a few out and attempt to scrub away the mascara and eyeliner from underneath my eyes. All the while, my conscience eats away at me. Not only did I have a sexual encounter with a random guy last night, I woke up in bed with Jason Dagson. I find a small comfort in the fact that I was fully clothed and teetering on the edge of the mattress when I eventually woke up. At least nothing happened between us.

  Suddenly, my inner thoughts turn to an all-out plague of incessant ramblings, causing me to stop wiping.

  What if Ethan tells Daggs?

  What if he tells other people?

  What will Izzy think of me if she finds out?

  The thing that makes me panic the most is that I know how rumours spread like wildfire in these parts. Before I know it, people will be saying I had a threesome with two strangers.

  I know nothing about this Ethan – the type of person he is, whether he’s trustworthy, if he’s had a thousand lovers. I become anxious and jittery at the mere possibility that he does this sort of thing regularly. We weren’t careful. Fucking hell, I was so stupid. I could have caught anything. I drag my hand down my face and my jaw drops as I start to realise the reality of my foolish behaviour. I don't recognise the person that is now gazing back at me in the mirror. I realise my wish did come true.

  “Paris, are you home?” Mum shouts loudly up the stairs.

  I jump out of my skin at the loud, piercing noise, almost knocking over an open bottle of nail varnish left on the dresser. “Bollocks,” I mutter. They know I’m home. Clearing my throat, I attempt to fake a bright and breezy response. “Yeah, I'm home.”

  It’s followed by a deeper, more demanding voice. “Can you come down here please, Paris? Your mother and I would like a word.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes, huffing out a few more expletives before flatly shouting back, “I’ll be down in five minutes.” Proceeding to run around like a blue-arsed fly, I swiftly slip my jacket off and shimmy out of my dress. I hold it to my face, breathing in the hideous odour of the last 36 hours – a mixture of perfume, sweat, smoke and sex. It’s utterly rank and turns my stomach in disgust even more.

  I throw it to one side, charge over to the corner of my room and drop to my knees as I rummage through a suitcase on the floor, which I still haven't unpacked since returning from university. I rush to throw on a pair of ripped jeans, a tight white vest and a zip-up grey hoodie, trying my best to appear some sort of presentable. Pulling the hair band from my wrist, I throw my hair up in a loose pony tail while catching one last glimpse of myself in the mirror. The paranoia creeps back in. Are my pupils still dilated? What if Mum and John can tell I’ve been taking drugs?

  I can't avoid going downstairs much longer. I might as well face the music and get it over with. As I nervously head towards the kitchen, my psyche chants to me, ‘Just act like nothing is wrong. Lie about your whereabouts. You were with Izzy. She always has your back. Or she used to. Shit. Shit. Shit. I could be screwed here.’

  When I see the exasperated looks they’re both sporting, I know I’m doomed. They mean business. Before I can say anything, John pipes up with his usual kick off. “You want to take a seat for this?”

  It immediately puts my back up. Who does he think he is? Again, I wish he would stop trying to act like my father. He just isn't and I’m also not a bloody kid anymore. I remain quiet, which obviously irritates my mum further as she spits out, “Have you honestly nothing to say for your behaviour over the past few days? And more to the point, where the hell have you been?”

  John calmly carries out his signature move, placing his hand on her shoulder as he continues to speak. “Calm down, Lillian. Let me handle this.”

  Yep. Let him handle your daughter like you always do. Since Dad died, it’s like she’s been unable to look at me in the same way. You’d think it would have brought us closer together, but all it’s done is tear us apart. It's destroyed our entire relationship.

  I can’t help but look up at her and speak quietly. “That’s right, Mum. Let John handle it.”

  And just like that, I sit and listen to the usual spiel about my disappointing behaviour and how I need to start looking for a job. Of course, they're right. They're always right. I am just one huge disappointment.

  Twenty-Three

  17th July 2003

  11.03am

  Seriously? Did I sleep that long?

  While one eye squints at the clock next to my bed, the realisation hits that I must have crashed hard last night. I’m a little surprised neither Mum nor John have come up here to drag my arse out of bed. One thing I’m instantly grateful for is the shower I managed to take before my body gave up on me. My hair stunk like a week old ashtray, and my skin felt like it was crawling with dirt, reminding me of my disgusting behaviour the night before. It’s difficult to bring myself around from the sleep that has consumed me for the last fourteen hours. As I roll onto my back and work my jaw in small circles, I’m surprised by the dull ache. I can’t remember it being this bad last night, nor do I recall my mouth feeli
ng so dry and I swear my tongue has an ulcer.

  What this situation also calls for is a job hunt. Deep down, I know it’s the only way I’ll be able to escape the wrath of Mum and John. The sooner I can save up some cash, the sooner I’ll be out of this hell hole. The money my dad left me has dipped somewhat since being at university. There is money left, just not enough for a deposit. There is the option of renting but once I leave, there is no way I want to have to return. My eyes fall sadly to the empty bed beside mine, causing my mind to wander to thoughts of what Izzy is up to right now. Swallowing my pride is also an option, too. If only she would give me some sort of indication that she wants me around, then maybe I would, but she’s made her feelings more than clear. As much as it pains me to admit it, she has moved on and maybe it’s time I did the same, starting with getting my arse up and switching on the computer.

  12.03pm

  I’ve been sat here an hour now and I’m still none the wiser.

  There are jobs out there; the problem is knowing what exactly it is I want to do. Fashion is a huge industry and I have to face facts: I graduated, but my results weren’t amazing. As a child, my two passions in life were riding and sewing. Both were great loves to me for different reasons. Riding with my dad was exciting and designing clothes with my mum was fun. Mum and I even made a pact that when I got married we would make my wedding dress together. That’s one pact that’s not going to happen now, thanks to John. She hasn’t touched the old Singer, my dad bought her in years and other than my coursework, I’m unsure as to the last time I got to work on creating something just for fun.