Fangs for Nothing (The Fangover 2)

She followed Drake out of his roommates’ room and across the hallway to his room. They’d been so close to making love in the right room, she smiled to herself at the ludicrousness of what they’d just done. The liberating wildness and excitement of what they’d done. She hadn’t felt this free and happy in months—honestly, maybe not for years.

“Are you okay?” Drake asked as he crossed his room, which now that she was in, she could tell was his. It was as rakish as he was, with a huge burgundy velvet canopied bed covered in black silk sheets and tons of pillows. A guitar lay on the bed. And he had two armoires that looked expensive and antique. Like the bed.

“I’m great,” she assured him, stepping farther into the room as he went straight to one of the armoires. While he looked for clothes, she wandered around, running her hands over his finely made furniture, torn between admiring that and Drake’s finely made rear end.

“All of this furniture looks old,” she said.

He gave the room a cursory glance, then returned to rummaging through his clothing. “It is. Most of it has been in my family for years.”

She touched the velvet of the bed’s canopy. There was an almost otherworldliness to the pieces. Like it all came from another time, which of course it had. But she was also reminded of how Drake could have moments where he seemed like he came from another time, too. There was a gallantness to him. And a strangely proper way of talking. And even when they’d been having sex up against a door, she sensed something almost proper—or elegant—or something, about him.

Maybe she’d just never met anyone like him before. She glanced over at him, standing there totally naked, still managing to look regal.

No, she’d definitely never met anyone like him before. Katie and Stella said he’d come from a privileged background. For a moment, a rush of insecurity filled her. What did she know about privilege? Nothing. She was just a bayou girl trying to make something of herself. And failing thus far.

“You are looking far too serious to be feeling great,” Drake said, pulling her out of her reverie.

She smiled, although some of her giddiness tamped down a bit. “I was just thinking about finding out what happened last night.”

That was sort of true.

“Right,” he agreed, pulling out a pair of jeans and a black shirt. “We need to get back to work finding those Chers.” He tossed his clothes on the bed, eyeing it. “Or we could just stay here a little longer.”

Josie Lynn genuinely laughed at the naughty glint in his dark eyes. “I think we’d better behave for just a little while.”

He walked over to her and pulled her into his arms. “Okay, super sleuth, but promise me you’ll come back here with me after we are done. Because, my love, I am not done with you.”

She smiled, but her heart seemed to beat both with joy and pain. She didn’t want him to ever be done with her. But it was far too soon to make admissions like that. She did know enough about men to know talking commitment too soon was a surefire way to send them running for the hills. Or in her experience, another woman.

“I’d love to come back,” she said, keeping her tone light and flirty. Even as that bittersweet pain filled her chest again.

Drake kissed her, then returned to getting dressed.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” she told him, pointing to the door, feeling the need to get herself together a little. She was sure she looked like—well, like she’d just had the best sex of her life, which was great for her mood, but probably not so great for her hair and clothing.

“Beware the bird.”

She shuddered. “That’s not even funny.” She poked her head out the door to make sure the coast was clear.

“You’ll take on a gator, but a parrot scares you.” Drake chuckled.

She made a face at him, then stepped into the hallway. She could hear Cort and Wyatt in the living room. They seemed to be discussing where to find the person who owned the parrot, or at least that’s what she thought.

She started to head toward the bathroom but changed her mind. Between the two glasses of wine and crazed lovemaking, she was beyond parched, and the refrigerator stood out like a beacon. Cold water. Yeah, that’s what she needed.

She tiptoed to the kitchen, mainly to avoid the attention of the bird rather than Drake’s bandmates. She opened the fridge to find it empty except for a six-pack of beer, a bottle of vodka and large blue Tupperware pitcher. Water? Juice? At this point, she didn’t care, she just wanted something cold.

She pulled out the pitcher and set it on the counter, then she opened the first cupboard next to the fridge. It was empty.

That’s weird. It seemed as if Drake and Cort and Katie had lived here for quite some time. Although she didn’t exactly recall Drake saying that. She guessed she’d just assumed they had from the way Katie and Drake had been teasing each other about his frequent nudity. That seemed like the kind of joke old roommates would share.

She moved to the next cupboard, which was also empty. Finally, at the last cupboard, she found glasses. And only glasses. Regular drinking glasses, wine goblets, beer mugs.

Okay, these guys must definitely eat out a lot.

She reached for a plain juice glass and returned to the pitcher. Just as she lifted it, to start pouring a drink, she heard the loud flap of wings and a high-pitched caw.

“Jack and coke. Jack and coke.”

She instantly jumped and screamed, both the pitcher and the glass crashing to the floor.

She spun to see where the parrot was, terrified it was near her. She located the red bird perched on the top of the refrigerator, regarding her with unblinking, beady eyes. Evil eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Josie Lynn looked away from the bird to find both Cort and Wyatt in the kitchen doorway.

“I’m—I’m fine,” she managed, casting another wary look toward the bird. “The bird startled me. And—and I kind of made a mess.”

She looked down, then blinked. The drinking glass had broken, and whatever had been in the pitcher had splattered all over her bare legs and the floor. And it definitely wasn’t water, and it didn’t look like juice either. Whatever it was looked dark red and viscous. Like blood.

“That f**kin’ bird,” Cort muttered, walking farther into the room. He held out his arm, and Josie Lynn flinched as the bird spread its wings—huge wings, as far as she was concerned—and flew down to land on Cort’s upper arm.