Page 67 of Shade

Countless.

It’s the number of nights I wake up in a cold sweat, freezing my ass off and near tears, trying to shake nightmares.

Why?

I have these dreams now and they’re all centered around a sound. An ending. I don’t know exactly when they started, maybe days after Rhya’s suicide, maybe months, but they piss me off. Every single one of the goddamn things have to do with Rhya.

I hate her.

Remember when I said suicide is only selfish to the survivors?

It’s true. Selfishly I blame myself. I blame Jaime and Gage and her dad and uncle and sometimes I blame Reece. He stood back and didn’t do anything.

Mostly, I blame myself for the night I left, and I don’t want to. I shouldn’t.

Do you see me there in the bed? The naked one amongst tangled sheets, hungover and staring out the windows overlooking the city?

Do you notice the way my head is pounding?

You wouldn’t think I won last night, would you?

I did. Against Tiller of all people. I should feel good about that, shouldn’t I?

I don’t know why, but I don’t. Something inside me doesn’t. Hell, I don’t even remember much of last night but judging by the soreness in my face, I’d say someone hit me.

There are times when I wake up alone and think to myself, I didn’t go to bed like this, but I still can’t remember what happened, or who, for that matter.

The afternoon light pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The room’s bathed in a rich golden hue too bright for me.

My skin feels tight, my eyes are burning and dry. It’s also hot in here. Too hot, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m sweating now.

Groaning at even the slightest bit of movement, I drag myself off the bed, a booming headache pounding its way out of my temples.

I make my way into the living room in search of coffee. Usually when I stay at the Wellington Suites, room service has it ready for me in the kitchen.

I throw on my jeans from last night that are haphazardly tossed on the floor next to the bedroom door, along with my cell phone and sunglasses, but no shirt to be found. I must have stripped on my way to bed.

Not surprising.

I use the bathroom, find it just as messy, bloody towels on the floor with a bottle of tequila in the shower and then head into the living room.

Tiller’s on the couch eating a bowl of cereal and watching cartoons. “Fuck you,” is his greeting. “There’s a condom on the floor. I’m guessing you had a good night after you came back andlockedme out.”

I remember leaving the bar and coming back to the suite, but I couldn’t tell you what happened once I was in here. “It’s probably yours,” I mumble back, reaching for the coffee on the coffee table his bare feet are propped up on. I motion toward the three cups of coffee. “Which one’s mine?”

“The one with pussy written on the side of it.” And then he scratches his head. “It’s not my condom. For one, I wasn’t in here because you fuckin’ locked the door on us. And two, I didn’t use one. She blew me in the hallway becauseagain, you locked me the fuck out last night.”

“Well then, I guess the condom mystery is solved.” I don’t remember fucking anyone last night, but I wouldn’t say I didn’t. The truth is, since Rhya died, there’s been a string of women I don’t remember.

I turn the cups around looking for the word pussy on the side. All three of us like different coffee so Tiller usually takes it upon himself to write messages on the sides of the cups. Sure enough, there’s the word “pussy” written in Sharpie on the side of mine. Roan’s has “fucker” scribbled across it and Tiller’s, naturally has “king” written on it.

I take the cup and lean back, the sounds of Tiller sipping the milk from his bowl highly annoying. “Do you have to drink the milk?”

He throws me a confused look and pulls the bowl away from his mouth, milk dripping down his chin. “What’s your problem this morning? Still acting like a dick?” The spoon in his hand clanks against the glass when he sets it on the table. He glances around the room as if he’s looking for someone. “Where’s the chick you fucked? And what happened to your face?”

Oh, that’s right. I guess it’s mine then. Whatever.

Sighing, I take a drink of the coffee. “Who gives a shit.” I’m not even sure what question I’m replying to. Maybe both?

---