Page 230 of Rock Me All Night
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Iwakeup in my bed with only the faintest recollection of Drew taking me into his arms and carrying me upstairs. The room is bright and warm.
The air smells better.
Even my toothpaste tastes better.
I throw on jeans and a sweater and rush down the stairs. No signs of Drew but there's a cup of tea on the counter.
That tastes better too.
* * *
Class flies by. My internship is a breeze. Everything is perfect until I collapse on the couch and pull out my cell phone.
Three Missed Calls from MOM.
One new message.
Fantastic. I roll my shoulders back. A preventative measure for the crick threatening to form in my neck.
There's the faint sound of music coming from upstairs. A recording of some kind. Not Sinful Serenade. Drew must be relaxing. There's no sense in disrupting him over nothing.
I listen to the voicemail.
Hey, Kara, sweetie. I miss you. Mr. Reeves tells me you're doing really well at Giffin. I'm so excited for you to start at Sugar and Spice in June. I've got a great visit planned for you during spring break. You'll be shadowing Stacey for two days—you remember Stacey? She adores you.
Call me soon.
Her voice is void of energy. She's not doing well.
There's no way I can tell her when she's this off-kilter.
What if she's not eating or sleeping again?
What if she's self-medicating again?
The crick in my neck spreads to the back of my skull. It will be a throbbing tension headache in five minutes flat.
Fantastic.
A glass of water and an ibuprofen might destroy this thing before it overtakes me. I push myself to my feet. My phone slides off my chest and onto the floor with a thud.
It's face-down.
I go to pick it up. Sure enough, there's a crack running down the middle.
It fell two feet onto hardwood and there's a crack.
It's so ridiculous it's funny.
A tiny laugh escapes my lips. It breaks up a tiny hint of tension in my chest, but it's not enough.
My throat is dry and ragged. The pounding in the back of my head starts. I move to the kitchen in a daze. Water. There's ibuprofen in my purse, but where the hell is my purse?
A door opens upstairs. Drew. God knows what he'll think of me in this sorry state. I plant my ass on the couch and dig through my purse. Those painkillers must be somewhere.
Footsteps rush down the stairs. And then I can feel it, even through the haze of my increasingly obnoxious headache. Drew is staring at me the way he always does. He's looking through me and picking me apart.
