Page 18 of Wild Angel

Severe thirst is what finally motivates me enough to roll onto my side. There’s a bottle of mineral water on the nightstand. I grab it and down half of it without lifting my head from the pillow.

The fluff between my ears where I used to have a brain refuses to give me any useful info. I’m in a room, but I have no idea where the room is in relation to the rest of the world.

Or how I got here.

Or even how long I’vebeenhere.

Thick, cold dread spools into my belly.

I know this feeling.

It’s what being drugged feels like.

I push onto my hands and stare around with a head that lolls on a weak neck. I’m in a bright, sunny room. Would have been even brighter if the curtains hadn’t been drawn, but they’re thin and pale so a lot of light spills through from outside.

Outside. That’s what’s important right now.

I’m still wearing the slinky dress from the nightclub, but someone took off my shoes.

My feet drag over a thick carpet as I head for the nearest window. Eyes in slits, I twitch aside the lace curtain so I can peek outside.

Then I just fucking stare.

That’s a lake out there. There isn’t much between us. The roof of a big, mansion-sized home, some sand.

I don’t know how to feel about any of this, so I turn my back on the beach and find my way out of the room instead. Then I veer back inside and shuffle as quickly as I can over to the en-suite bathroom, where I empty a bladder that had been stretched so full, poor kids could have played football with it.

I had every intention of leaving the bathroom straight away, but then I saw the shower, and I thought of all the wonderful things it could do to my body.

Like wake me the fuck up.

I strip, turn on the faucet, and gasp when icy water hits my face. I try not to take too long—a quick lather and rinse—but I feel seven million times better than I did five minutes ago.

There’s no way I’m wearing that same dress again. I leave it on the bathroom floor and go investigate the walk-in closet in the bedroom. It’s mostly full of men’s clothes—suits and smart jeans and shit like that—but there’s a section that immediately draws my eye.

Pink.

Pink sweats, pink hoodies, pink motherfucking sneakers.

With pink socks.

Now, I’m all for a girl wearing whatever the fuck she wants but…holy Mother of God, this is an assault on the senses.

I’m determined not to go anywhere near the pink shit, but when I hold out a pair of dark jeans from the more sensible side of the closet, it’s quickly apparent that I’ll look even more ridiculous trying to wear those. Unless rolling up pants legs ten times had suddenly become fashionable.

Thankfully, I find a pair of white yoga pants that only have a stripe of pink down the side of each leg, and admittedly the pink tank doesn’t look too bad on me. I take the hoodie only because I have no idea how long it will take before I get to change again, and I get cold at night.

My choices of footwear are my silver high heels or pink sneakers.

I quickly braid my hair so it’ll stay the fuck out of my way and then exit the room, still scowling.

So it’s no wonder that the first person I see looks like she wants to run away when we lock eyes.

“Buenos días,” I tell her.

She ducks her head a little.

“Where am I?”

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