Page 21 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
At the exact moment we pull out of the lot and zoom off into the night, I realize just how much trouble I’m in, and that, in more ways than one, it’s too late to jump off this ride.
Because, reckless fool that I’ve become, I want too badly to see where it’s going.
I’m being carried up stairs. My head rests on a heated, solid surface. I feel safe, relaxed, and completely at ease.
I have no idea where I am.
I snuggle closer to the sweet-smelling warmth that surrounds me, and sigh in profound contentment. I could stay here in this gently rocking, protective cocoon forever. My fingers find strands of silk. I begin to twist the silk through my fingers, smiling at how lovely it feels on my skin. I bring the silk to my nose and inhale.
Cinnamon. Sugar. A hint of smoke and musk. I love that smell. I’d happily drown in it.
A jarring, metallic clang makes me jerk. I whimper. A voice mutters, “Goddamn useless security gate.”
More stairs. The sound of even breathing. The slow and steady thump of a heartbeat beneath my ear. The voice comes again, gentler this time. “Chloe. Wake up, Princess, I need the key.”
“Mmm.” I nuzzle my face into the warmth that is both unyielding and sinfully soft, like velvet laid over granite. I tighten my arms around it, because somehow I can. Wherever this place is, it’s heaven.
I hear a low, strained groan, as if someone is in pain.
“Shhh.” I press my lips against the silken heat. I hear myself make a noise deep in my throat, like a purr. The groan comes again, more anguished.
“Chloe. For the love of God. Give me the key.”
Through my fog of contentment, I consider the word: key. I keep the key . . . “Spare,” I mumble. “Top o’ the frame.”
A moment’s pause, some rustling and gentle movement, then I hear a satisfied grunt. Now I’m somewhere darker than before, because the red light behind my lids has been extinguished.
Home. I’m home. The thought floats to me on a leisurely breeze. I recognize the orange-blossom scent of the candle I forgot to blow out before I left for dinner, which is still burning on the coffee table in the living room. It gutters as I glide by noiselessly, effortlessly, on my way somewhere else . . .
I’m laid down on a soft, soft surface. My limbs are gently arranged. My shoes are removed. It’s not as warm as before, nor nearly as pleasant. I frown, trying to open my eyes, but my lids are like lead. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to regain the heat I’ve lost. A weight settles over me: a blanket. I burrow deep under it, sighing in contentment once again.
Something downy touches my forehead, the barest whisper of pressure. Sparks sizzle in its wake. The voice from before speaks softly into my ear. But now it speaks guttural, primitive words I can’t understand.
“Idi spat, laskovaya moya. Spat.”
“Don’t go,” I beg, fretting at the good-bye I sense in the gentle whisper. “Don’t go yet. Please.”
A moment of silence follows, then I hear an exhalation. “I won’t,” murmurs the voice in words I can grasp. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
I’m awash in relief. He’s here. He’s not going. I can sleep, safe and sound.
And so I do.
I’m jolted awake by the sound of a garbage truck lumbering down the alley outside a nearby window. I bolt upright. My heart hammers. Confused, I look wildly around the dim room for a few moments before I realize I’m in my bed, at home.
I’m still fully dressed. My head pounds. My eyes are gritty. My mouth is a desert.
I pad to the bathroom, use the toilet, and pop two Advil with a gulp of water from the faucet. By chance, my gaze lands on the digital clock on the counter. I have a heart attack when I realize I was supposed to be at the downtown flower market three hours ago to pick up fresh flowers. It’s Monday, Fleuret’s busiest day of the week, when the majority of our corporate accounts have to be installed. Before lunch.
There are two dozen local business owners who are going to be furious with me today.
Not even bothering to brush my teeth, comb my hair, or otherwise make myself presentable, I run to the bedroom and shove my feet into a pair of sneakers, leaving the laces untied. I grab a jacket from the closet and drag it on while I dash to the living room, frantically searching for my handbag. It’s on the coffee table. I fly out the door, and sprint down the stairs, out the building, and across the sidewalk. I fall panting on my car.
It’s 5:50 a.m. In ten minutes, my shop staff will arrive, and there will be no fresh flowers for them to work with.
Desperate to find a solution, I begin a series of wild calculations. It will take me twenty minutes to get downtown, at least an hour or two to shop for the flowers—if I’m fast—another twenty to get back to Fleuret. Best-case scenario, I’m looking at an arrival time of approximately eight o’clock.
Right when the driver arrives to start loading the delivery van with all the arrangements that won’t have been made.
