Collateral (Collateral Damage 1)

Then me at the pool tripping as I made my way back to the water.

Back to the water.

I’d gone in. I’d stood there like an idiot and dipped my head in—face first—before climbing back out, deciding I needed another drink before I’d let myself float in there. Seemed like a great idea at the time. Until I tripped and fell.

Then light flooded the patio.

And all those men appeared out of nowhere.

And all those guns.

And Stefan.

I cover my face with my hands as I remember the rest of it. Him carrying me into the living room, then up here. Him cleaning glass out of my cuts and bandaging me up. Him being gentle.

Then I remember more.

I remember leaning into him as he untied my bikini top and stripped it off. I remember lying back as he took off the bottoms.

And then, nothing.

My memory goes dark from there. Maybe that’s a blessing.

I’m relieved when I close my eyes and do a mental scan and don’t feel any soreness anywhere except my knees and hands.

I force myself to move, to swing my legs over the bed. I see my bikini on the floor and bend to pick up the pieces. It takes a minute for the room to stop spinning when I straighten and when I stand, it’s another minute before I’m steady.

I drag the blanket with me as I take painful steps toward the open balcony doors and peer out over the edge, grateful that the pool and patio are empty.

As quickly as I can manage, which isn’t quick at all, I make my way to my own room. The balcony doors are closed but unlocked, thank goodness, and I slip inside.

My bed is still made but I bypass it to go to the bathroom. I need to pee.

When I’m finished, I wash my hands and groan at the sight of myself. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, my hair looks like I literally dunked my head into the water face first then pulled it back out. Which is exactly how I did it.

I cup a handful of cold water and splash it on my face, then brush my teeth before opening the medicine cabinet to search for aspirin but I’m out of luck.

My legs are heavy as I make my way back to the bedroom. My knees hurt and the heels of my hands feel raw as I climb in.

Discarding Stefan’s blanket, I roll onto my side to sleep.

I can’t think about last night right now. Can’t think about why I was naked in his bed. Can’t think about him undressing me.

I just close my eyes and sleep and hope to God this monster of a headache will be gone when I open them again.

Later that day, I have a vague memory of Miss Millie coming into my bedroom with tea, toast and aspirin. I’m pretty sure she helped me take that aspirin.

The toast and cold tea are still beside the bed when I open my eyes later. A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost ten at night.

My stomach growls and I sit up, grateful my head doesn’t feel quite like a bowling ball anymore. I pick up the cold tea and drink it, then eat half a piece of toast before climbing out of bed.

I’m still naked but Stefan’s blanket which I know I’d dropped on the floor beside my bed is gone. Miss Millie probably took it. Does she know I slept in his bed last night? And where was he? Where did he sleep?

Clara’s bed, most likely.

The thought makes me angry and strangely sad at once.

I walk into the bathroom and switch on the shower. I take my toothbrush in with me and stand under the water for a long time even though the cuts on my hands and knees sting in the hot water. I shampoo and condition, then scrub myself with soap. I’m not sure what I’m trying to scrub off, his touch or my embarrassment.

My stomach growls. I’m starving.

I switch off the water and wrap a towel around myself as I walk to the closet. I look for my jeans, but they’re gone, and my duffel bag has been emptied. Did he confiscate my jeans?

I pick a sundress off a hanger, not caring which one, grab a light sweater and slip my feet into flip flops. If he tells me to put on heels for dinner, I’m going to stab him with one, I decide.

Although I’m not sure why I’m so angry with him. I remember that he took care of me. If I’m honest with myself, it’s that I’m embarrassed.

Memory flashes a piece of our conversation. Something about getting blood on his sheets.

I cover my face again. Did I try to tell him in some roundabout way that I was a virgin? Did he pick up on that?