Page 10 of Nothing To Lose
Resigned to my fate, I make a trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth, freshen up, and change into some sweatpants. On my way to lie on the sofa, I peek in on Tyler, who is snoring softly. Once I finally lie down, facing the door and keeping my ears perked in case he wakes, it doesn't take long for exhaustion to pull me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
3
TYLER
Disoriented isn’t a strong enough word to describe the way I'm feeling right now.
It's dark, only a sliver of light coming from the slightly cracked open door. I'm vaguely aware that I'm in someone else's bed. I'm assuming it must be Isaac's, because the last thing I remember is being in his truck, and then maybe a bathroom? I feel like I should be more panicked about that, but I'm too warm and comfortable, burrowed under covers that smell like soap and sawdust, with an underlying musk of clean sweat. Even better, the smell is on my skin, because he gave me his sweater. I have an odd desire to turn over and aggressively huff the scent into my lungs.
But that would be weird.
Being here right now is weird. I'm lying in a stranger's bed, staring at the one beam of light across a stained drop-down ceiling, smelling the bedsheets like a complete freak.
It figures that the one time I wake up in a stranger's bed, it’s because I have a concussion and not because I did anything fun.
Why can't I be that guy? I'm twenty-three years old, for fuck's sake. This shouldn't be my life. I should have friends and hookups, go to parties, have fun like normal people. Not live a solitary life, devoting all my time to a double major, and only going on dates that my father sets up.
Flashes of my date gone wrong bombard me. His face, the hateful sneer, his fist coming down on me…
I burrow back into the blankets, wishing for unconsciousness to pull me under again.
Then a deep voice cuts through the haze of pain and panic, distracting me. The voice is murmuring low enough that I can't make out any words, but it’s strangely comforting.
My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I examine more of my surroundings. The room is bare, with no furniture or wall hangings. There's only the bed, which doesn't have a headboard, and a small table with what I think is a lamp. Gingerly, because my head still aches, I sit up and try to get my bearings. The voice is coming from just outside the door. Curious, I stand from the bed and make my way to the door, peeking through the crack.
Isaac is sitting back against a worn brown sofa, holding a phone against his ear with one hand, the other massaging his eyes. He looks tired.
He also looks very…something.
How can my mind go from drowning in panic, to thinking about how beautiful this not-so random stranger is? Am I allowed to think he's the sexiest man I've ever seen? Is trauma not supposed to overpower attraction? I thought he was hot the first time I saw him, enough so that I thought it necessary to cool him off with the contents of my iced beverage, but right now he's sprawled out, wearing a black tank top and dark grey sweatpants, looking like something out of my deepest fantasies. His long body is both leaner and more muscular than I thought it'd be, and I'd give anything to trail my fingers over every tendril of ink climbing up his biceps. Or my tongue. Or hell, even just my eyes, but I'd like to have my contacts or glasses back first.
He rolls his neck and stretches as he listens to whoever he's speaking to, wincing and rubbing the back of his shoulder. Did he sleep on that little couch? His giant body on that sofa, while my skinny ass was star fishing in his bed?
"I saw that coming. Does she have any pain pills? Yeah, I know she doesn't like to take them, but she'll be miserable if she doesn't," he says, standing up and walking out of sight. "I'll call Van and see if he can drop something off, but in the meantime, use those hot and cold packs and see if you can get her to do the stretches. I know you know, sorry. I can't help it. I'm not used to being so far away, and I know you have to get to work." He makes a few sounds of acknowledgement to whatever the other person is saying. "Alright, I'll check in later. Love you."
His voice is so soft, it’s clear he really cares about whoever he’s talking to, and I can't help but wonder who it is. Not that it's any of my business.
"I don't bite, you know."
Well, fuck.
Willing my face not to be several shades of red, I widen the opening of the door and take a tentative step out of the dark room. Isaac is leaning back against a counter, holding two bottles of water.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I didn't want to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting anything," he says, holding a bottle out to me. My parched mouth encourages me to leave the bedroom and pad toward him. His eyes trace me from head to toe, his lips curving up on one side. I'm sure I look horrific. I'm a rumpled mess, wearing clothes that aren't mine and don't fit. I can feel my hair sticking up in all directions, and I desperately need to shower and brush my teeth. At least one of us finds my disheveled appearance amusing.
"Was that your girlfriend?"
Did I really just say that out loud?
Luckily, he doesn't seem irritated. He chuckles and shakes his head, but doesn't give a definitive answer.
“You should probably take your meds, too. But maybe you want to eat first?”
My head is pounding, but the mere mention of food makes my stomach roll. I don’t remember how long it’s been since I last ate or drank anything. How long have I been here?
About halfway through my bottle of water, I'm able to pull myself together a bit more, but I still can't find it in me to look him in the eye. Instead, I look around at yet another bare space.
