Page 10 of A Man in Uniform

Chapter Two

Story

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My eyes are closed, but I'm awake, and my head is pounding like I've been hit by a fucking freight train. It's a headache like I've never had before.

Clutching my skull, I rub my temples for a second and try to open my eyes, until the sun creeping through my blinds turns my headache into a devastating earthquake. The thin streams of sun pierce my pupils like serrated blades, and twist their way into my brain.

Pulling the blanket up over my head, I tuck myself back into darkness as I groan.

What the fuck happened last night?

My mind is blank, I don't even know how the hell I got home.Think, Story, think.There's flashes of dancing with my friends, laughing, drinking, and then it all goes silent.

Suddenly, a rustling noise comes from the kitchen, causing my eyes to jump open, but I stay hidden under my blanket. A scent starts to work its way under the blanket, it's bold and aromatic.

Coffee? Who's making coffee?

Gently, and quietly, I slip the blanket down my face to my nose, and peer out. My bedroom door is open, but I can't see anyone. There's more clanking and rustling, footsteps and the sound of the faucet.

Who the hell is that? Jenny? Claire?

It's got to be one of them, that's the only thing that makes sense. I was with them at the club last night, and that's the last memory I have. Who else could it be?

Wait, there was dancing, but not with them. There was dancing with. . .

Mystery guy. Fuck, that's right, mystery guy had his hands all over me.

Oh, God, what if?

A rancid thought twists my stomach.Did I bring home some random dude last night?

The sizzle of butter on a pan cuts through the air, and I'm left with a curiosity that I'm afraid of. I'm afraid to see some guy in my kitchen that I don't know. A stranger whose name isn't on the tip of my tongue, and I can't even remember his face.

No, don't be ridiculous, Story. You wouldn't do that. It's got to be one of the girls.

Calming my nerves, I sit up in bed. I don't know why I'm freaking myself out. I've never gone home with, or brought home, any random guy. I've dated, I've danced, I've even kissed, but not once have I just tossed caution to the wind and brought someone home.

So why would I start now?

Twisting my legs over the side of my bed, I let my feet dangle above the floor. I can't stand up yet, I'm not ready. The pounding in my skull is growing, so I take my time, and my entire body is tingling with a weakness I've never felt before.

Pressing my toes into the floor, I move my feet back and forth over the plush carpet. Looking down, I'm in a t-shirt and shorts.

When did I change?

Raking my fingers through my hair, I finally get the strength to stand and slowly make my way to the door. Yawning wide, my eyes are on the floor as I step out of my room and into the open living space of my apartment.

A one bedroom on the east side of Providence, it's small, it's quaint, and it's all I can afford. The kitchen and living room are one space, the only separation is the rug turning to linoleum tile for the small kitchenette. The ceiling is spotted with orange water spots, and the walls are cut right out of the eighties with wood paneling.

“Wow, what the hell happened last night? I can't remember a—” My voice cuts out instantly as my eyes lift to the figure standing against the stove.

Clear as a day, like a mirage when you're dehydrated and have been walking in the desert for days, Wyatt Saint is standing in my kitchen.

No. This can't be right. I'm dreaming, I have to be dreaming.

Rubbing my eyes, I blink over and over, unable to grasp what I'm looking at. He's standing shirtless, the hard muscles of his biceps draw my gaze across his broad shoulders and down to the V shaped muscles of his back as they disappear into his jeans.

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