Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

A quick glance over my shoulder tells me what I already knew—that I’m alone in bed. Which is strange considering my alarm is set for seven a.m., and unless boarding is involved, Luc isn’t what anyone would call an early bird.

Throwing off the covers, I roll to sit on the edge of the bed. The room is spinning a little, and I can’t help wondering how much I had to drink last night. I

knew I was pleasantly buzzed when I left the bar, but the sharp pain in my head and the sick rolling of my stomach screams hangover.

A hangover would explain where I got the nerve to take off all my clothes and dive into the pool after Luc last night, even knowing how pissed off he was. And why, when the sex was over, I didn’t force him to talk to me about whatever it was that had sent him spinning off the rails in the first place.

But I’m sober now—queasy, but sober—and I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I push to my feet, then sink slowly back down into the bed. I’ll get to the bottom of it as soon as the room stops spinning.

“Luc,” I call out, hoping he’ll bring me a glass of water and a couple TYLENOL. He doesn’t answer. “Luc?” I say a little more loudly, then wince when it only makes my head hurt worse. When he still doesn’t answer, I reach for my phone, figuring I’ll text him a super-pathetic plea.

But there’s already two messages from him—along with about twenty from my dad and brothers which I continue to studiously ignore. Tapping on his name, I pull up his latest texts.

going to work out with Ash and Z. Be back later.

And two minutes later:

there are bagels and fresh orange juice, if you’re hungry.

That’s it. No, want to meet us at the gym? No, want to get together for lunch? Not even a wham, bam, thank you for last night, ma’am. It feels strange, like things have somehow gotten even more out of kilter instead of less.

I thought we were okay after yesterday at the photo shoot. We hung out all afternoon and things were good, normal. Fun. Even at the bar, things were good. Certainly better than they’d been between us in a long time. And then suddenly, last night, he’d gotten all weird and intense and quiet, something he only does when he’s super pissed. I don’t know what set him off, and when I asked Z and Ash, they’d just shrugged.

And now this.

Maybe I’m blowing things out of proportion. Maybe he didn’t ask me to come because he wanted to let me sleep.

Or maybe they’re doing guy stuff, and he assumes I wouldn’t be interested.

Or maybe he wanted to talk to them about me. God. I really, really, really hope that isn’t it. Just the thought of him discussing what we do—what we’ve done—with Z and Ash brings the nausea rushing back, and I close my eyes and drop my forehead to my knees. Our best friends so do not need to know what I’m like in bed.

I’m sitting there, trying to work up the energy to get up—or you know, to find the will to live—when my phone vibrates again. Hoping it’s a text from Luc, I pick it up right away, then feel unreasonably disappointed when it turns out it’s from Zach, my youngest older brother. He’s the only one who hasn’t texted me the last couple of days, and secretly I’ve been hoping it’s because he feels as messed up about that woman coming back as I do. But judging from the first part of his text, which is all I can see on my main message screen, I’ve been living in a dream world.

stop being a spoiled brat. you need—

I swipe out of it without ever opening the text. If that’s what he’s leading with, I have no interest in anything else he’s got to say.

Still, it gives me the impetus I need to finally get myself to the bathroom. My feet feel a little better today, I realize as I limp barefoot across Luc’s hardwood floor. The cuts must be starting to heal, so at least that’s a win, I tell myself. Too bad it doesn’t feel like much of one when I’m standing over the sink—with one hand braced on the counter to keep myself upright—brushing my teeth. Splashing water on my face. And trying desperately to convince myself that there’s nothing to worry about.

Yes, I know Luc almost as well as I know myself.

Yes, things have been rough and different between us lately.

Yes, this whole run out while I’m still asleep thing is a little weird—and eerily reminiscent of what I did to him the first time we hooked up.

But that doesn’t mean anything weird is going on. Our relationship is changing, evolving, so is it any wonder that the two of us feel a little awkward? Like things don’t quite fit? It’s totally normal, I reassure myself for the thousandth time. Or at least, that’s my story and I’m clinging to it with bloody fingertips for as long as I can.

When I go back into the bedroom, I see that my clothes from the bar last night—a pair of jeans and a summer blouse I picked up at Macy’s before we went out—are neatly folded on Luc’s dresser. Seeing as how my last memory of them was tossing them onto a chaise longue at the pool, I can only assume this means Luc went out and got them this morning.

Thank God. Considering my only other option is raiding his wardrobe for another pair of sweats. This thought doesn’t sit well with me. Neither does the idea of going shopping for a whole new wardrobe when I have a perfectly good one sitting in my closet at home. I just need to stop being a chickenshit and go get it.

A quick glance at the clock tells me that if I wait a little longer, I can probably get into the house today to get my stuff—and then get out without running into either of my parents. From the time my oldest brother moved to Salt Lake City to go to college, our family has had a long-standing Sunday morning breakfast date at the local pancake house. Through the years a lot has changed as everyone has moved out, gone to school, gotten jobs, gotten girlfriends, etc—but the one constant has always been Sunday breakfast. Unless you’re on your deathbed or out of the state, you don’t miss it—no matter how drunk you got Saturday night.

I’m not on my deathbed, but I’m definitely missing it today. If my mom is going to be there, I’m going to be missing it for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. And if that gives me a little pang deep inside, that’s just too damn bad. Because there is no way I’m going to cave on this, no way I’m going to just forget about the fact that she dumped us for a better, more exciting life.

Who does that? I wonder for about the ten-millionth time. Who goes out for ice cream and then never comes back? The fact that she’s shown up now means nothing to me. Except to make me wonder what went wrong in that bigger, better life that she’s finally run back here so my dad can bail her out of it.

So, no, I won’t be going to breakfast with her. But judging from the abundance of text messages on my phone, my brothers and father will. This means I should be able to get into the house for a little while without worrying about running into any of them.