Page 1 of Chasing Amber

PROLOGUE

Amber

The first thing I know is that my head is pounding. I groan, unable to open my eyes. The room seems too bright, even through my eyelids. Did I leave the blinds up? Was I out late? I don’t usually drink enough to cause a hangover, but…

I pull my knees closer to my chest and grind my palms against my eye sockets. The pain is tremendous and irrational. What did I do last night?

Think, Amber…

I went to a frat party…but I was tired, so I left early and walked back to my dorm…

I reach for my pillow, intent on pulling it over my face to block out the light. My hand meets with nothing. I bat around. Where is my pillow? My mattress feels too soft. I’m sinking lower than the thin mattress over the stiff springs my dorm bed allows.

Fuck. Am I in someone else’s room?

I stop breathing as I try to remember more about last night. Did I leave with a guy?

Fuck. Air hits my legs, which means I’m not covered and probably still wearing the skirt I went out in. I swing one hand down to pat my thigh, verifying that I’m wearing my skirt, which has risen too high. My panties are on. That’s a good sign. Hopefully, I didn’t have sex with some stranger.

Fuck. My head. The pounding is worse. I really need water and ibuprofen, but I’m not ready to move, nor do I want to see where I’ve slept because this is definitely not my room.

My brother, Spence, is going to kill me. If I’ve slept with some guy…Fuck fuck, fuck… What if I had unprotected sex and got pregnant or picked up some disease? How the hell do I not remember? I was not drunk when I left the party.

I can say goodbye to my carefree college days right now because there is no way Spence will continue to let me pretend to be a normal college co-ed after this. Forget what I may or may not have done that I can’t remember. What I did not do wastexthim to let him know I was safe when I got back to my room. By now, he probably has half the state police looking for me. I’m surprised I can’t hear sirens.

A deep, menacing male chuckle causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. My breath hitches, and I don’t move an inch for a few seconds as panic consumes me.

Finally, I bolt upright to face the direction the laughter came from. The blood drains from my face.

The man smirks. “Headache?”

Is he a man, though? He looks younger than me. Eighteen? Nineteen?

My chest rises and falls. I can’t catch my breath. I jerk my gaze around the room, except this is not a normal room. It’s certainly not a dorm room. The bright light isn’t coming from a window. It’s coming from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

I think I’m in a basement. The entire room is concrete. The only three items in the room are the mattress I slept on, a bucket, and a chair the guy is sitting on.

He’s swinging back on two legs. His smirk makes me want to punch him in the face. He has dark, straight hair that’s too long in front and hanging over his eyes. He runs his hands through it, but it falls right back over one eye. It’s greasy. His T-shirt might have been white, but it’s dirty, as though he’s worked outside for ten hours and hasn’t showered. His jeans are threadbare. His Converse sneakers are black and old.

I’m certain he’s younger than me, and I hope to God I did not have sex with him. At the reminder, I grab the hem of my skirt and tug it more fully over my butt. It’s short, though. There’s not much I can do to cover myself.

I squeeze my legs together. Nothing hurts, and I don’t detect wetness or crusty semen. Bile rises in my throat at the thought. The urge to vomit takes over, and I cover my mouth, trying to combat the sensation. My headache alone could be making me nauseous.

“You gotta sit on that mattress for a long time, babe. If you’re gonna upchuck, I suggest you use the bucket.” He nods toward the corner of the room.

I cringe at the way he just called mebabe. Who the fuck does he think he is?

The room stinks. It’s probably the mattress or the guy. Or both. It’s not helping me control the nausea. I finally lurch forward on my hands and knees, crawl over to the bucket, and arrive just in time to heave.

I can’t stop. My stomach keeps clenching, causing me to vomit over and over until I’m doing nothing but dry heaving. There wasn’t much inside me to begin with. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I haven’t eaten since dinner in the cafeteria before I went out.

Think.

Breathing heavily, I continue to lean over the bucket, not trusting my stomach. I’m on all fours. The concrete floor is digging into my knees, but I have far bigger problems to worry about than bruises.

Think, Amber. Think.

I had two small cups of beer from a keg, and I never set them down because I’m not an idiot. I know no one put anything in my drink unless the frat put something in the keg and roofied the entire room. That’s not likely.

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