Page 30 of The Shadows We Keep

The warm summersun tightens my skin. Thick blades of dense grass tickle my limbs. The heat radiates everywhere, and I can feel my temperature rising. I have that feeling of when you wake up in a closed-up tent too late in the morning. I’ve always related it to an earthly like state of hell. Kicking at the air, something wraps my legs, causing resistance and the panic sets in.

My body jolts ups, eyes flying open but still hazy from dreams of summer fields. I glance at my surroundings. Nothing is familiar and I’m hit with a thunderous pain behind my right eyebrow.

Great, a hangover.

To no doubt go along with a night full of regrets. But you can’t really regret what you don’t remember, right?

I heave in a deep breath and search for my cell. I check the nightstand, but there’s nothing there that’s helpful to me other than the time: eleven fifteen.

Throwing my legs off the mattress and flinging the clean white sheets back, I notice I’m in a tee shirt—not one of mine, but the well washed, soft, cotton, oversized, male kind. A faint smell of pine clings to the material—and a pair of silk panties. Which is odd considering I wasn’t wearing any the night before.

My feet thud against the cold, wooden floors and when I’m up-right the shirt falls to mid-thigh. There’s nothing in here to tell me whose bedroom this is. Maybe I went home with a gentleman who put me to bed in his guest room.

I press my ear against the door, but nothing sounds from the other side. Creaking it open just an inch, I peer out into a hallway. Generic landscapes line the cool, tan walls. No portraits to help jog my memory.

I tiptoe toward the end of the hall. The open concept living and dining room sits across from a spacious kitchen. But it’s the wall of windows to my right that finally gives me some bearings. I have a clear view across the way to my apartment building, even through the tinted windows.

Harkin.

As quickly as his name manifests in my mind, his body appears around the corner in the kitchen. He doesn’t notice me across the room. I take the advantage and watch him as he effortlessly glides around the kitchen island, making coffee, stirring something in a pan, and flipping bacon.

I went home with Harkin last night. Small flashes of the bar play in my mind: a call on the sidewalk, a girl’s night hijacked, an abandoned office. My cheeks heat at that last memory. It’s all flooding back to me. But for the life of me, I can’t remember anything after we stepped out of the secluded space and severed our first intimate experience.

He stops in the kitchen, typing away at his laptop on the counter between two plates. The music switches from a song I don’t know, to Rockwell’s Iconic hit:Somebody’s Watching Me.My eyes leap from his fingers to his face and his eyes are in fact watching me now. My breath hitches. I should move further into the room, but my feet are cemented into the floor.

“I’m making breakfast. But I guess by now it’s really brunch.” He turns his back to me and it’s the first time I realize he’s shirtless, gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. Just like his arms and chest, the black and gray ink covers his entire toned back. This time, instead of a goddess haloed in lotus flowers, a thick skull with two wicked snakes intertwines their bodies to cover his skin. The two pieces are the epitome of life and death, and it makes me wonder if it’s symbolic of his life.

I haven’t responded to his statement; I’ve simply become a statue to decorate his living room.

“Keira? You going to come in here and eat with me?” His tone is light and playful. He’s obviously not battling a crippling hangover headache.

I shuffle slowly toward the kitchen bar where he’s laid the two plates piled high with breakfast food. I thank the gods above that the fusion of smells in the air isn’t harsh on my stomach. Two small, white pills sit next to a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee. A carafe of cream and a jar of sugar are next to the black sludge that I’m putting all my cards on to bring me back to life.

I mix them in, giving the mug a quick swirl with my spoon before throwing back the pills and taking a long sip of the glorious drink. Only then, do I slide onto the barstool and make eye contact with the man of the house.

“Harkin?” I want to know how I got here and why I’m with him and not Stacey.

Oh my god, Stacey.

Thoughts of what could’ve happened to her spring to the forefront of my mind.

“Cell phone!” I all but shout. The small, black device slides against the marble countertop in my direction. The screen already lit from the movement.

Shit, five miss calls and enough text notifications to nest against each other. Oops.

I’m too hungover to deal with her right now. Shooting off a quick text to let her know I’m alive, I set my phone back on the counter face down and slouch in my chair, lifting the coffee mug and inhaling the delicious aroma wafting from it.

“How am I here?” My eyes peek over the cup, shielding my small smile from him.

“We took a cab.”

“You know what I mean, Harkin, why am I here, and not at home?” My mug clanks against the counter, a sign of my growing irritation.

His eyes pierce mine, but his features remain cool. My blood heats—or maybe that’s only the coffee doing its job. I’ve noticed it doesn’t take much from him for frustration to grip me. He’s as infuriating as he is delectable. He leans casually against the counter opposite the island, his legs crossed at the ankles, those damn sexy V muscles every girl melts for on full display.

“Well, let’s see: Stacey ditched you at the bar, you passed out before we could even get out the front door, and I didn’t think it would be a smart idea to walk ten blocks with an unconscious body in my arms. I didn’t know how to get you into your apartment or which one it even was. And last but not least, you were so drunk I couldn’t get any answers from you. So rather than leave you at the bar to fend for yourself—which you couldn’t have because, again, unconscious—I had no other choice but to bring you here.” He kicks off the cabinet and stalks toward me, dropping his elbows to the island so we’re only a mere foot away from each other now. “Is that a sufficient answer for you?”

I’m shocked into silence, a rarity for me. I want to be mad, but it seems the only person I should be mad at is myself, or maybe Stacey, because that bitch was the one to go get the last tray of shots. I knew those were a bad idea, but the look on his face and the growling in my ear sparked a rebelliousness I haven’t felt since I was a teenager.

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