Page 35 of The Players

Where the hell was I?

I scanned the foreign room, a wild panic building under my breastbone. The room around me was large and lavish. The bed was a California King, so I was swimming in it. A large, white duvet that smelled of clean linen was draped over me. Across the room, a seventy-inch flat screen occupied one wall. Matching nightstands and a dresser made up the other furniture. Everything was expertly decorated and far nicer than any thrift store furniture at my house. But there was nothing in the room that identified where I was.

My eyes caught two doors on the left. A closet? An ensuite bathroom?

Or my escape route?

I decided I needed to try to make a break for it either way.

But when I threw back the covers and slid my feet over to stand, my head began to pound like a drum. I could barely stand. I gripped it, searching for what had happened to my noggin.

Savannah had hit me with a glass bottle. That was the last thing I remembered. So, not only was I fighting off a hangover, I might have a closed head injury as well. All the more reason to get the heck out of dodge.

Ignoring the pain, I stood. Squinting with one eye since that seemed to ease the pain a bit, I shuffled to the first door and quietly turned the knob.

A bare closet greeted me. Only a few blankets and towels were there to witness my distress.

Quietly, I closed the door and went for the other one.

When I opened this one, Easton Hill stood on the other side.

He was shirtless, wearing a pair of low-hanging joggers and bare feet. I blinked at his chiseled body—the abs and pecs and V—for a second before finding my voice.

“What’s going on here?”

He put a finger to his lips to silence me and offered a tray that I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. He nodded to it and gestured toward the room I had just been attempting to leave.

“Breakfast,” he whispered. “And meds.” When I looked at him questioningly, he added, “For your head.”

I stared for a beat longer. He was being so nice, but this was Easton Hill. Was I in his house? How did I get here? I glanced over his shoulder to see, but he was impatient with me. He began to walk forward, blocking my escape route with his muscular body and the breakfast tray. I had no choice but to retreat.

When we were both inside the room, he shut the door behind him. His bare feet made no sound as he entered the room and put the breakfast tray on the nightstand near the massive bed.

Then we both stood and stared at each other.

“My father is home,” he said in a whisper. “He doesn’t know you are here, nor should he. He is in the other wing, so that shouldn’t be a problem unless you go screaming. I wouldn’t suggest that if I were you. If you think I’m bad, you should not meet my father.”

Ah, Easton’s infamous father. I’d once heard he’d put an orphanage out of business on Christmas Eve, but things like that had to be rumors. Still, rumors grew from truths at some point. I also had a suspicion he had something to do with my parents’ death. Though I wanted information on him, I did not want to meet Easton’s father, which was clear.

“What am I doing here? Whose clothes am I wearing?” I pointed to the tank top and sleep shorts that weren’t mine. I didn’t have the strength yet to ask who dressed me while I was unconscious. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer.

“You are here because I brought you here,” he said, his tone fully deadpan. His eyes were flat as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his messy dark hair. “Savannah went off the rails and hit you in the head with the vodka bottle. I told her she was done at that point. I made them drive us here. Then I… made sure you didn’t die.”

He flexed his jaw as if mentioning helping another person was against his religion. Even the words he used—made sure you didn’t die—were a cover-up. He’d taken care of me. He wasstilltaking care of me.

Why?

“But you shouldn’t be up,” he said, gesturing to the bed. “Savannah hit you hard. You might have a concussion.”

I considered this for a moment. “Though my head hurts, I don’t think I have a concussion or I wouldn’t remember what a bitch your cousin was to me last night.”

I wondered if he would be angry at me for calling her a name, but he nodded instead. “She’s really off the rails this time. She’s always been a hot head, but something happened, and now she’s out for blood.”

Raising an eyebrow, I fixed him with a look. “Do you even hear yourself?”

He frowned and shook his head. “I’m not like her.”

I laughed. “You tried to kill me.”

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