Page 58 of Last Boy

I walk into the hotel with the two big bags in my hand. I could have gone to Poppy’s house and picked some of her own shit out, but—let’s be honest—the girl could probably use some new clothes. Besides, she doesn’t want anyone to know what’s really going on, and I’m pretty sure my rolling in there, rifling through her drawers like a perv, might come off as a red flag.

I wanted to get her comfy stuff because, for the next few days, her bruises will be healing, and I want to make everything easier for her right now.

I also picked up a formfitting black dress. Because apparently, this place has a fancy restaurant, and I’m going to have Hudson stand guard outside one night while I take her down for a nice dinner. Once she’s feeling well enough, of course.

I know that I can’t be with Poppy forever, so this next week…I’m going to make sure that whatever she wants, she gets.

I hit the button to open the elevator doors, and I step inside.

Hudson’s kept me updated the entire day, but aside from her breakfast order this morning, he says she hasn’t contacted him or room service.

It’s after two in the afternoon, and she should have ordered lunch by now.

Getting off on floor twelve, I text Hudson, letting him know I’m back in case he wants to step out for a while, and I head into the room. Unsure of what version of Poppy I’ll find today.

Sweet Poppy, who looks at me like I’m her hero. Sexy Poppy, who demands me to fuck her. Or sassy Poppy, who mouths off and rolls her eyes every five minutes.

Or maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get a mix of all three.

Sweeping my eyes over the kitchen and living room, I set the bags on the table and rush toward the bedroom.

“Poppy?” I call out.

No fucking answer.

The bedroom door is open, so I walk in. And again, no Poppy. The bathroom door is closed, but I don’t hear the sound of the shower running.

Putting my fist to it, I knock a few times. “Poppy?”

Still, no answer.

I don’t want to invade her privacy, but she could be there…hurt. Or worse, what if she hurt herself? Her life has been complete fucking trash lately. Who the hell knows what’s going on inside that beautiful yet fucked up mind of hers?

“If you don’t open the door on the count of three, I’m breaking it.”

As I start to count, I take a card from my pocket. This place is swanky as fuck; I’m not going to break their door down if I can just jimmy the damn thing.

“One…two…three,” I say slowly.

And when the door remains closed, I jam the card in again, wiggling it around until it unlocks.

Stepping inside, I suck in a breath at the sight of her. Earbuds in, bubbles covering all but her face, and eyes closed. She doesn’t sing, but hums low, gently bobbing her head.

I should leave her alone. She looks so relaxed. But, Christ, I can’t pull my eyes away from her. I can’t even see her gorgeous body, and I’m still fixated on her.

Strands of loose hair frizz around her face from the humidity from the steam. She doesn’t have an ounce of makeup covering her bruises, and her split lip is starting to heal.

She’s so beautiful. But so fucking broken. And all I want to do is be the one to put her back together.

Only I can’t.

When her eyes flutter open, they widen for a second before she screams. Ripping the earbuds out, she takes her hand and splashes a blob of water and bubbles at me.

“Get out! You creep!” she screeches. “Get out! Get out!”

“I can’t even see your fucking body, Poppy,” I holler back. “And even if I could, I’ve fucking seen it before!”

When she sinks further into the water, shooting me a glare, I smirk.

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