by Anthology
“But –.” Katie says, offering me her arm. I cling on to it. I’m not feeling right.
I hear footsteps. Everything seems exaggerated – colors, lights, sounds, everything.
“Hey there, doll, how’re you feeling?” Dylan grins. I have to look up to see his face. He’s taller than me. He runs his fingers through that long black hair of his. He moves effortlessly, like he’s more at home in his body than I could ever dream of being in mine.
“I –,” I stammer. I’m feeling tongue-tied. It has nothing to do with the effect that Dylan has on me. My tongue feels numb; my lips won’t respond to my brain’s commands.
“Hey,” Dylan says. His eyes glint with concern. He grabs my shoulder, fingers closing around it. His touch is softer than Russell’s and lighter – but no less powerful. He lifts me up. “Are you feeling okay?”
I shake my head. I can’t talk.
“Is she in shock?” Katie asks, her voice sounding high and almost scared. I want to reach out and tell her that I’m fine, that everything’s fine – but I’m feeling woozy.
Dylan touches my face again. It feels good: warm and safe. But he’s looking at me with concern – studying my face – not looking at me the way I wish he would.
“Have you taken something?” He asks me, his voice now hard. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Taken what? I stumble.
Dylan turns to Katie, still holding me up. “Your friend – Liv. Does she do drugs?”
“What?” Katie exclaims, sounding surprised. “Liv – no way. Never. She’s not that kind –.”
Dylan cuts her off. He doesn’t wait for Katie to finish. “He slipped her something. That asshole, I’m gonna –.” He doesn’t finish. It’s like he’s flipped into protector mode. Fix things now, revenge later.
He scoops my body up in his arms. I don’t feel a thing. I’m dizzy. Everything is spinning underneath me. I close my eyes, because the light is almost too bright to bear.
“Help me put her –.”
That’s the last thing I hear.
My head feels like it’s about to explode. I don’t dare open my eyes. I don’t know why, but my body is telling me not to. Maybe there’s a reason I shouldn’t. I don’t know. I can’t remember.
Katie.
Is she here? Where am I? Where is here? What happened?
A thousand questions rush up and assault me all at once, tumbling into one another until they mush against each other in my brain. My mind still feels like it’s operating at ten percent of its usual speed. It feels as if it’s full of quicksand, and I’m having to wade through it to dig out the answers.
My ears prick up. Whistling: I hear whistling.
“Katie?” I whisper. “Is that you?” My head is throbbing now. I’ve got the worst headache I’ve ever experienced. Maybe I drank too much last night. Geez – I hope I didn’t embarrass myself. But the whistling, it doesn’t sound like Katie.
“You’re up.” A voice says.
A man’s voice. My body jerks, and my heart starts to race. I don’t know what happened last night, but I know this can’t be good. I’m not the kind of girl who just goes home with men she doesn’t know. That’s not me. It’s never been me. And yet…
And yet apparently I did. Apparently I have.
The bedcovers rustle, and the mattress sinks underneath me as someone sits down on it. I don’t dare open my eyes. I’m suddenly terrified of what that will reveal.
“Who are you?” I ask. My mouth is so dry I can barely form words. “Where’s –?”
The mysterious man cuts me off. His voice is light and upbeat. He almost sounds like he’s holding back laughter. “Katie?” He says cheerfully, “she left –.”
I sit bolt upright. My headache is suddenly forgotten in my panic. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins. I know something happened to me, even if I can’t quite remember what that something was. I try to open my eyes, but it feels like thousand pound weights are weighing my eyelids down.
“Whoa, gal,” the man says quietly. He must reach out, because suddenly I feel his hands on my shoulders. He’s pushing me down.
“Who are you?” I whimper. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know where I am. I’m terrified. “What are you doing to me?”
I try and resist, but the man’s firm hands push me until my back comes to rest against the mattress. Something presses against my lips, and I’m about to spit it away – thinking it’s the man’s lips – when cool water floods into my mouth.
“Drink this,” the man says, his voice lilting. I remember that voice. It’s calming. “You need it.”
I guzzle the liquid down. I figure that whatever is happening, this man is right. I’m parched. I need it.
“What happened?” I ask, pushing the glass away from my lips. “Where’s –?”
“Your friend?” The man says. “She had to go to work. She only left an hour ago. I’m under pain of death to keep you safe, believe me. That little lady is fierce.”
“That sounds like Katie,” I say, relaxing. The man’s voice is soothing. “But you – who are you?” And why did Katie leave me alone with you, I don’t say? It doesn’t sound like something she would do.
“Hey now,” he replies. “That hurts. You really don’t remember my name?”
I rack my brain, but I don’t. Heck, I barely remember my own. I still don’t know what happened to me. I feel like the explanation is lurking just on the edge of my brain. It’s close enough to sense, but just out of range. I shake my head against the pillow.
The man presses a warm, wet cloth against my eyelids. He wipes them gently, carefully. I blink, and suddenly my eyelids feel freed. I tear them open – slowly, terrified that the light will blind me again.
A man’s face comes into focus. “You…” I whisper. A name floats into my brain.
Dylan nods. “Me,” he grins.
I stifle a pang of disappointment. He’s wearing a shirt this time. I might not remember everything, but I definitely remember how he looked before.
Before…
“What happened?” I ask.
Dylan’s expression hardens. Suddenly he doesn’t seem nearly so friendly. But I can sense his anger isn’t directed at me. “Russell Walters,” he spits.
I close my eyes. This time it’s Russell’s face that floats into view. I shudder at the memory of his touch on my arm.
“He slipped you something,” Dylan continues, sounding disgusted. “I heard the rumors, but I never believed he’d stoop that low. He used to be a good guy, you know?”
I lick my lips. My mind still feels like stuck cement. “Slipped me?” I say, fishing for more. Like a girl who can’t tear her eyes away from a horror film, I feel like I need to know everything.
Dylan lets out a sigh. His finger caresses my arm. I peek out at him through half-closed eyelids. His expression is split between anger and soft, caring.
“I don’t know. Ecstasy, maybe? Probably mixed with Rohypnol, or another sedative. I’m not sure. I don’t take drugs. But whatever it was, it acted fast.”
“The drink,” I whisper.
A pained look flashes across Dylan’s face. He nods, even though he doesn’t know I’m watching everything he’s doing. He looks genuinely hurt, like he thinks he failed me. Heck, I don’t know why – he couldn’t have done anything more.
“The drink.” Dylan agrees.
“It won’t do anything –,” I tail off, suddenly struck dumb with horror. My heart is beating, and adrenaline shooting through my system. I swallow hard.
Dylan rests his hand on my shoulder. It’s soothing, and warm. It’s exactly what I need. “Won’t do anything?” He says, prompting me for more.
“You know,” I mutter, “do any damage. Long-term.”
Dylan chuckles, his breath exploding outward. He shakes his head; then catches himself, realizing – thinking – I can’t see him. “No. You think I’d have let you stay in this rotting piece of crap house if it could! You might have a thick head f
or a couple of days, and mood swings –.”
Dylan’s certainty is soothing. It drains the tension out of me. I relax against the bed. “Nothing new there…” I murmur. I can’t hide the smile turning up the corners of my lips.
Dylan squeezes my shoulder. “Trust me – you’ll be fine.”
I open my eyes, looking Dylan full on for the first time since I woke up. He looks tired, like he’s been up for hours. The thought flashes into my mind that maybe he was watching over me while I slept. It fills me with – heck, I don’t know – embarrassment? Happiness?
Excitement.
But even the shadow of darkness under his eyes doesn’t hide how absolutely magnificent he is. Besides, Dylan’s face lights up the second my eyes open. It feels like he’s trying to impress me.
It’s working.
Dylan licks his lips. “You hungry?” He asks.
My stomach rumbles, right on cue. Until that exact second, I hadn’t noticed that I was famished – too worried. But Dylan’s reassuring presence wipes out any need to worry.
I nod enthusiastically. “You bet your ass I am!”
Dylan’s face flickers with wicked interest. I wonder exactly what is going on behind that beautiful face. When he speaks, his voice comes across as a husky growl. “I’m willing to take that bet…if you are?”
Chapter 3
Liv
I towel my hair down one last time. In the distance, I can hear Dylan rattling around in the kitchen. I catch myself smiling in the mirror. It’s nice to have a guy cooking you breakfast – if it even is breakfast time. I don’t know how long I was out last night.
In the end, I give up fighting a losing battle and toss the towel into the wash basket in the corner. My hair is as dry as it’s ever going to get. I pinch a ratty strand of hair experimentally between my thumb and forefinger. It’s still thoroughly damp. I can already feel it soaking through the comfy gray cotton sweatshirt I stole from Dylan’s closet. I just know it’s going to leave a big, wet stain.
I bet I couldn’t look any goofier if I tried. The huge sweatshirt almost drapes down to my knees. It swallows me up.
A flash of embarrassment courses through me. I suddenly realize that I want to look good for Dylan. I want to impress him. I want him to look at me like I’m a girl he met in a club, not one that collapsed in his arms after her drink was spiked.
“Get a grip, Liv,” I mutter under my breath. “You’re probably nothing to him. He’s just being nice. A guy like that, he’s got options…”
The thought hurts, but I know it’s true. I look around, trying to take my mind off what it won’t stop turning over. I chew my lip, wondering whether I’ll be able to find a hairdryer anywhere around here. A little cry of laughter bursts out of me. Yeah right! Looking around this mess of a bedroom I woke up in, there’s no chance of that happening.
This house is very clearly a guy’s place. The piles of clothing stacked messily on a couch by the wall, the DJ equipment lining every spare inch – everything gives it away. It might as well be signposted. At least it smells nice.
I realize that I’ve got to get moving. Dylan’s probably wondering what the heck I’m doing in here. The truth is – I’m hiding. I feel kind of embarrassed about the way yesterday worked out. I pull the flimsy wooden door to the bedroom open, and wander towards the sound of cooking: fizzing, bubbling and popping, punctuated by the rattle of dishes.
It’s not the sound that attracts me, though. It’s the smell. Whatever Dylan is cooking, it smells delicious. My stomach growls again. It hasn’t stopped rumbling since I stepped out of the shower.
Dylan’s voice greets me the second I step into the kitchen. He has a dishcloth draped across one huge, muscled shoulder, and a dab of flour decorating his lightly stubbled face. He looks like he’s stepped out of a way sexier version of Good Housekeeping.
“Well hello there, beautiful. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I flush. The compliment throws me off balance. For a second I’m lost for words. I’m not used to compliments: especially not from guys who look like Dylan. “You don’t mind, do you?” I ask with a crinkled eyebrow, chewing the inside of my lip. “I mean, me borrowing your stuff?”
Dylan grins, clattering a thick mixing bowl down on the counter in the process. “Heck – I don’t care. It’s not my stuff.”
“Oh,” I mutter. “It’s not your bedroom?”
“Nah – not if my life depended on it.” Dylan glances around theatrically, with a huge, goofy grin on his face. I can’t help but smile. His humor is infectious. “You think I’d live in a place like this? It’s Ricky’s place. He’s home for Christmas.”
I swallow, hard. Suddenly I feel like a fish out of water. This scene – it’s so domestic. It’s like we’re boyfriend/girlfriend, even though I know that nothing could be further from the truth.
“I guess not…” I mutter. Dylan’s right. I can’t really picture him living in a place like this. He’s straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalog – not in the way he dresses, or even the way he speaks, but just because of his unbelievable good looks.
“So – how do you like waffles?” Dylan asks, turning his back on me and starting to whisk the mixing bowl vigorously. His bicep bulges inside a gray T-shirt that sculpted perfectly. If anything, it’s half an inch too tight.
My mouth is dry. “Waffles?”
Dylan glances at me over his shoulder. “Yeah, you know; chewy, crispy, Goddamn delicious. You cook them on an iron –.”
“Shut up!” I grin, copying the expression dancing across Dylan’s face. I can’t help it. His mischievous humor is catching, and it’s bowling me over – hard. It’s not the only thing bowling me over, either. “Waffles will do fine, thank you very much,” I say, injecting a cheeky, sassy snark to my voice.
“You’re the boss.” Dylan says, saluting me by tapping his right hand against his forehead. Except – he kind of forgets he’s holding a whisk… Waffle batter goes everywhere – landing on his T-shirt, his forearm. A little splash even kicks up all the way to his cheek.
I giggle. “Is that how you wanted that to go?”
“Oh, crap,” he grunts, glancing at me with embarassment. Dylan looks around, looking for somewhere to ditch the mixing bowl. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”
“Wait, let me give you a hand,” I say. I walk towards Dylan, feet so light it feels like I’m walking on a cloud. I don’t know what’s coming over me.
The fleeting thought, that maybe whatever ended up in my drink yesterday lowered my normal, awkward barriers, crosses my mind. I truly don’t feel as inhibited as I normally do. Being around Dylan, and acting like this, feels as natural as anything I can remember.
There is a strange buzz to the air as I walk across the faded kitchen floor towards Dylan. He’s still holding the whisk in his hand. A little bit of batter drips down the handle. He’s looking at me strangely, as if he’s trying to guess what I’m about to do.
I don’t know either.
I keep closing in until I’m only a few inches away from Dylan. “Here,” I say, my voice sounding huskier than ever, “let me help you with that.” I pluck the whisk from his hand and set it in the bowl.
“Hey – Liv?” Dylan asks, sounding uncertain. It doesn’t sound right, coming from him. I glance up at his firm, solid jaw. Only certainties should come from a mouth like that. “Are you feeling okay?”
I glance up at him. Now I’m this close, without sleep in my eyes or my mind befuddled by drugs, I see him clearly, as if for the first time. Dylan’s eyes sparkle: glitter, even. I’m sure there’s something different about them. But my eyes keep moving. It’s necessary. There’s no part of him I don’t want to look at. God, he’s so… perfect. I could eat him up. I think I’m going to just that.
I take a step forward. I couldn’t be more in Dylan’s personal space if I tried. I’m invading it, but he doesn’t back away like I would in his place; he just stands there, tall and proud. I grab his hand – the one cove
red with waffle batter. His skin is boiling to the touch: and that touch – wow. It sends an electric shock crackling through me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. I pull Dylan’s arm towards me. It’s heavy. He’s so muscular that even his arm is an effort for me to move. I lean forward, bending at the hip. My hair falls down around me, forming a halo around my head. My lips are an inch from Dylan’s forearm.
“I mean it,” Dylan says. He tries to pull his arm back, but there’s no way I’m letting go. “Are you feeling – like yourself?”
“Yes,” I murmur, “and no.”
I drop my lips to his forearm, and lick the waffle batter off it. A slight, soft sigh escapes Dylan’s lips. The room is suddenly silent. It’s tense. I feel electric. I run the fingers of my free hand down his arm, scooping up another thin line of batter and lick it clean of my fingers.
“Liv…” Dylan whispers. He sounds conflicted – like he’s caught between two minds. I don’t know if I’m kidding myself, but I swear I see something twitch inside his jeans. I know a part of him wants to push me up against this counter and take me. I know another side – maybe even a stronger part – is fighting that animal urge.
I know which of the devils on his shoulder I want to win.
I keep licking up his arm. God, I can’t believe I’m doing this! I’ve never done anything close to this before. But there’s something about Dylan: maybe the way he smells; maybe the heat radiating off his skin; his calm confidence; I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s drawing me in.
I hear a rustle as Dylan runs his fingers through his thick black hair. “Fuck,” he growls, sounding anguished. “Liv!”
Dylan pushes me away – gently, but with a firm strength that leaves nothing to the imagination. Strangely, I don’t feel embarrassed. So what if I was forward with him? Even if I was a bit too forward, I’ve needed to be stronger my whole life. Why not now?
