“How did no one know this was going on? You just get dumped off and no one checks on you?”
She squares her shoulders to look at me. “Evan came looking,” is all she says.
“What happened? Did he call the police? Contact social services? Please tell me the day he found you is the day you left that house?” My mouth can barely keep up with what I’m thinking. I rattle off questions without waiting for responses. Instead of getting shaken or upset, she continues to run her fingers through my hair to settle my emotions instead of me helping her.
"He took care of it, of me,” she declares, avoiding further details.
“How? How did you get away?” I ask.
She leans in close to me as if she is going to share a secret no one knows. She grabs the back of my neck and delivers a sentence that rocks my very core.
“He killed them,” she whispers.
My eyes widen.
I admit I would have done the same had I been confronted with the opportunity, but for a teenager to swoop in and save her from that misery without being caught is almost unbelievable.
She lays her head on my shoulder and continues her story. I just hold onto her, hoping there is an end to the misery in sight. It pains me to think of her hurt, used, and damaged. She is the strongest person I know, and for this world to have brought her to her knees, makes me want to both weep and battle to the ends of the Earth on her behalf.
“There was a tear in the window covering that they used to black out the window in the room that I was in,” she continues. “Evan saw me and the next thing I remember is him carrying me through the house and to his car. There were drugs scattered all over the living room and their bodies were on the couch and the floor, motionless. I asked later and he said they overdosed. He took me back to Sharon, and I never had to leave her house again.”
“So why do you think he killed them?” I ask.
“Because he told me he was the one who gave them the hot dose,” she says. “He cleaned me up and called his mom. I remember her making phone calls before social services and the police came to the house. All I ever told them, though, was there were drugs in the house and I was with Evan when we came home and found them dead. I never moved from Sharon’s house after that and we never spoke of it again.”
She picks up her phone and examines the screen before looking back at me. “So yes, I love Evan,” she explains. “He saved me in every way a person could be saved, and I’ll forever be thankful for his bravery that day. But the only person I’m in love with is you, Lakin.”
I cradle her face in my hands, wiping away any remaining tears. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m sorry that happened to you and I’m sorry it wasn’t me who saved you. I promise you, though, I will never let your heart hurt again. I promise you everything I have.”
She pulls the back cover off her phone, revealing the love token I gave her. She throws the phone on to the bed and holds the charm out for me to hold. Campbell then takes her necklace off and replaces her forget-me-not charm with the one I gave her.
“I can’t promise you everything,” she says before placing my hand back onto her heart, “but I can promise you this.” She smiles and kisses me deeply, twisting love and passion together and pouring it into our kiss.
“I won’t ever be able to let you go,” I say between kisses. “I’m stealing your forever.”
I flip her over and pin her to the bed. Holding her hands above her head, I bend down and lick along her neck. “You know what I want, don’t you?” I ask.
I rise up to see her smile and she pushes me to stand before her. I offer my hand and she accepts it. “I want that, too,” she says with a grin.
She slides her feet into her shoes and grabs her purse. “Then let’s go make it legal.”
I grab her hand and pull her toward the door before she can change her mind. Before the night is over, this woman will be my wife, and I will forever be the only one who gets to save her.
Carly
The sound of the shower running wakes me up, and immediately I know I’ll be paying for whatever I drank last night. I attempt to open my eyes, but my body revolts against the sensory overload of my surroundings. The sunlight peeking through the curtains forces my eyes closed again and makes my pounding head throb even worse. My throat burns as if I’ve swallowed sandpaper and my stomach rumbles in protest.
Slightly cracking open one eye, I find my savior…a bottle of water. I slowly wiggle to the edge of the bed and reach for the plastic bottle. The liquid hits my lips, and it’s warm and stale, but at this moment, it is the best damn water on the planet. Guzzling until I finish the last drop, I then lightly place the empty bottle back on the nightstand and wait for the dehydration to ease. Already I feel better, still hungover, but better.
I want nothing more than to go back to sleep and make this morning start over again a few hours from now, but then I see a pair of jeans on the floor beside the bed. Those aren’t my jeans; those aren’t any of the girls’ jeans. Oh, my God, they are men’s jeans. I take a better look around the room and realize this isn’t even my hotel room. I lift the covers and take a mental appraisal of my apparel. Panties…check, collared button-up shirt that doesn’t belong to me and smells like men’s cologne…check.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I’m a ho,” I whisper to myself as I clamp the duvet back down around my body. The water turns off in the bathroom and I scramble out of bed to find my clothes and get the hell out of the hotel room before my host makes his appearance and I have to endure an awkward morning-after that no one over the age of twenty-five should have to endure.
I dash around the room, finding piece after piece of clothing and shoes. I just need to locate my purse and I can skulk out of here, committing myself to the walk of shame. The handles are poking out from under the armchair in the corner of the room. I bend down to grab it, so I can make a run for it.
“Wow, that’s a view I wouldn’t mind seeing every morning,” a smooth voice drawls. My body stills, wishing like hell I had the magic power of invisibility. I quickly try to think of what to say…what to do. Maybe I could make a run for it and hope I’m at least in the correct hotel. That would be horrible walking the strip or hailing a taxi in a man’s shirt and black lacy boy shorts.
Oh, my God. I’m giving this guy a full peek at my ass right now. I whip around and reach for the hem of the shirt to pull it down as far as it will go to cover my ass. As mortifying as this situation is, the sensation of throwing up kicks in as soon as I lay eyes on the man on the other side of the room. He smells like heaven, and looks like a tempting Greek god. His hair is a wet mess and a towel is tightly wrapped around his waist, revealing a buffet of tattoos that I probably explored in detail last night. “Jen is going to kill me,” I stammer as I nervously shift around to cover my legs.
“No worries, baby doll. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Royce says with a wicked grin.
“Except herpes, that shit follows you home,” I sarcastically spit out.
The gorgeous lead singer plops himself down on the bed, completely unconcerned with flashing me his manhood. “You weren’t too concerned about that last night,” he says, running his fingers through his wet hair.
My eyes wander around the room, desperately trying to look anywhere but at the impressive piece of maleness before me. “Can you please cover that thing up, and turn around so I can get dressed?” I ask him nervously.
“Seriously?” he scowls.
“Yes!” I screech. “I am so humiliated right now. My ex-husband didn’t even see me naked; I’m certainly not going to let some random one-night stand see me.”