Page 16 of Little Blue

Oh no!

“Did we—did I—did we—” I gasp, unable to pull my hands from my eyes just yet. If I don’t look, maybe none of this will be real. “Did we have sex?”

There’s a long, heavy silence. Then, rustling. Movement.

I want to die. Being hit by a car feels damn favorable to finding out I’ve not only tossed my virginity away on a night I can’t remember—but to my boss, no less.

I want to cry.

If I cry, will he fire me?

Lucy’s tail swipes across my chin as he turns around in my lap, reminding me of his presence as the man speaks, closer now. “Is that something you do often?”

“What?” Affronted, I drop my hands and let out a squeak of alarm that has the pounding in my head increasing. “You!”

“Me.” Tattooed hands dip casually into the pockets of his black suit pants as he peers down at me from where he stands at the edge of the bed—his bed—far too close to me. “Answer my question, Little Blue.”

Little Blue. The name has a spark of fear igniting in my chest as a flash of memory, distorted and horrific, flares in my mind.

Him.

Leaning in.

A prick of pain.

A kiss.

Darkness.

“You—”

He interrupts me, his voice dripping with warning. “Do you often find yourself in the beds of unfamiliar men?”

“What?” I gape. Is he for real, right now? I sputter, “N-no!”

I’m still trying to make sense of my fractured memories, trying to piece the shards of a broken, distorted puzzle together.

“Yet you assume we’ve slept together.” The ice dripping from his words is enough to chill me to the bone.

Glancing around the room, I note that it’s impossibly large. And there’s more than one door.

Which door would lead to escape?

If I grabbed Lucy and ran, could I make it into the bustling streets of New York to escape him?

“Irelynn.” The clipped call of my name has my eyes snapping to his. A deadly blue pulls me in, threatening to pull me under.

I shiver. “What?”

“Why do you think we’ve slept together, if it’s not something you do often?”

“I—I’m sore. Everywhere.” I shake my head. “I have a headache. I don’t drink—not ever.” I rub my temples and cringe. “I think I’m hungover—” I look around the room again before glaring up at the man. “How did I get here?”

How is he here?

I’m so confused right now. My thoughts are disjointed. Panic flares before being chilled by blue eyes that threaten to bind me to this place, this sweet nightmare, forever. Pieces of the puzzle flicker, illuminated, only to grow dark again. Mental fingertips stretch into the abyss of murky depths, searching for answers that play out of reach, taunting.

I ask again—no, I demand, “How did I get here?”

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