Page 32 of Red Zone
I’m about to say something—anything—when she cuts me off.
“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp, brittle around the edges. “This was a mistake.”
“Lyla—”
She yanks open the door. “Forget it ever happened, Hayes.”
And then she’s gone.
I fall back onto my bed, still shirtless, staring up at the ceiling.
What the hell just happened?
10
LYLA
Ipractically trip down the stairs.
My shoes hit the hardwood with a smack, and the cold air outside slaps me in the face the second I swing open the front door. My heart’s still racing, my limbs buzzing with too much adrenaline and not enough oxygen. Carter’s hoodie swallows me, and I clutch the hem like it might shield me from the memory of what almost just happened.
God, what was I thinking?
I fumble in the pocket and yank out my shirt. My hands are shaking as I shove my arms into it underneath the thick hoodie fabric and peel the hoodie off, careful to not give anyone a show. I toss it into the backseat of my car without a second thought, like the act of physically separating myself from it will erase the way his hands felt on my skin.
Only after I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut do I realize something important.
Shit.
My bra.
Still on his damn bedroom floor.
Panic threatens to claw up my throat, but I shove it down long enough to grab my phone and text Madison.
Lyla: Going home.
I don’t wait for a response. I just drive.
The apartment is quiet when I get in.
Too quiet.
I shut the door behind me, lock it, then unlock and relock it. Twice.
My fingers twitch as I kick off my shoes, placing them in the open cubby, and head straight for the bathroom. Sometimes lights are too much—too bright, too sharp—so I gave it a little makeover right when we moved in. Now, a string of purple LED lights runs around the mirror and along the edge of the ceiling. The second I flip the switch, a soft violet glow floods the room, instantly easing the ache building in my skull.
I turn on the sound machine next—waves crashing gently against a shore—and peel off my clothes with trembling hands. Everything feels too loud. The scrape of my zipper, the rustle of fabric, the thud of my jeans hitting the floor.
The shower’s already on, steam curling out behind the curtain.
I step in and sink to the tile floor before the water can fully hit me.
Let it come to me.
That’s what my therapist taught me. Don’t force the calm. Let it arrive. Picture the room.
The room in my mind is purple. Always purple.
