Page 130 of Running from Drac
“Figured you’d need somethin’ in your guts after all that tequila last night,” he says with a lopsided grin. He sets the tray down on the nightstand beside me. “Brekkie in bed. Not exactly my style, but there ya go,” he says shyly. His lips twitch into a slight smirk as I gruffly try to sit up, my head swimming in an alcoholic fog. I can barely see him through my bleary eyes, my stomach turning uncomfortably.
The gesture is sweet. Too sweet. My throat closes, tears threatening to form again because no man has ever done something so thoughtful for me after sex.
“Thanks,” I whisper, forcing myself upright. The smell hits harder now. The grease is intense—too intense. My stomach twists violently.
“Shit—” I manage to get out the word before stumbling to the side of the bed, grabbing the trash can just in time. I retch until my stomach is empty, my body trembling with each heave.
Ryder’s hand is on my back instantly, rubbing slow circles to soothe me. “Easy, love. Just a hangover doin’ its thing.” His voice is gentle with concern, but there’s no judgment.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, tears streaking down my cheeks. “Sorry,” I croak, slightly embarrassed.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. Get some kip, yeah? I’ll be right here when you wake.”
I collapse back onto the bed, my head extremely dizzy, his scent wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I’m too tired to keep my eyes open. They flutter closed, my head drifting into a peaceful, hungover haze. Somewhere within the fog, I hear him whisper against my hair, “Swear on my life, I’ll never hurt ya.”
Then I’m gone again.
When I wake, it’s dark outside.
Dry mouth… head pounding… body still sticky with sweat. Yeah, I’m definitely fucking hungover.
Reluctantly, I roll over, hand slapping the cold sheet beside me, connecting with nothing but air. It’s empty… the sheets too cool where Ryder should be.
Everything hits me at once. He promised me he’d be here when I woke up, and he isn’t. I called him Eddie’s name while we were fucking, and he got pissed. No matter how many sweet nothings he whispered to me last night, he still left me here alone—the bastard escaping during the middle of the night. It’s the only explanation. Not that I blame him for it. I did the same thing to him after the last time we fucked.
For a second, panic spikes in my chest. Then I notice a folded paper on the pillow.
Have a show tonight. Thought you might want this.~Ryder~
Taped to the note is a backstage pass.
I sit there staring at it, my heart twisting. Last night’s promise plays on repeat in my head, tangled with the taste of him on my tongue, the feel of his girth inside me, and the sound of Eddie’s name leaving my mouth when I came undone.
I shouldn’t go.
I should walk out the door and never look back. But something drags me forward, some masochistic need to see him again, and see if he truly is a man of his word.
Dragging my ass out of bed, I attempt to look somewhat pretty, even though I move like a slug through every motion. Once upstairs, I find myself on the top floor; the doors opening to the familiar cry of female hysteria as men taunt and tempt them from the stage. The club is too loud. With lights flashing and the bass rattling my bones, I clutch my pass like it’s a lifeline, weaving through the crowd until I find the backstage curtain.
The same security guard who carried me back here before is standing there, his size a skyscraper in comparison to my petite frame. His muscles are popping, each vein bulging as his body takes up the entire doorframe.
“Hi again,” I say shyly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m back. This time I’ll come quietly.”
The bouncer eyes me curiously, rolling his eyes when I flash him the special pass that gets me backstage. He moves the curtain for me, pointing down the hallway towards the room I last met Ryder at. “He’s back there.”
Nodding, I carefully make my way backstage, my mouth dropping when a hot guy in chaps walks by me, ass flashing me like a full moon. He tips his hat to me, and in the sexiest Australian twang, says. “Ello, doll.”
Cheeks blazing, I quickly make my way toward Ryder’s room, my stomach doing flips as my hand fits around the knob, desperate to see him again and apologize, this time sober.
My heart drops the second I hear screams on the other side of the door, my hand freezing mid turn.
Slowly, I carefully open the door, peeking in to find Ryder completely naked, moving hard between the thighs of an older woman. He’s pounding into her with ruthless precision. She’s older, maybe fifty, with platinum hair that tumbles down her shoulders, and cheap red lipstick smeared across her mouth. Her palms slap the mirror for leverage, breasts swaying with each hard thrust. She moans with a practiced, taunting pitch, like she knows she has an audience.
My body freezes, but my eyes stay fixated. More intrigued than bothered, everything moving in slow motion like I’m in a trance.
This shit isn’t happening. Is it?
Ryder’s gaze finds mine in the mirror, a coldness in his eyes that chills me to the core.
