CHAPTER 18: The first thing you realize when you wake up, is that your head is hurting. Not just hurting, but banging like someone's hitting you repeatedly with a sledgehammer. You groan, floating right in between sleep and wake, and something is pulling you back down into the comforting darkness you came from, but your aching head keeps you floating, forcing you awake, slowly but surely. You get kind of mad, because you want to sleep, but the more you try, the faster you reach the surface, and as you lie there, struggling, you realize something else: One - your clothes are on. Two - you're on a soft, unbelievably comfortable, inviting mattress. Three - the scent that surrounds you as you breathe into a soft, large pillow, isn't yours.
You open your eyes as the realizations come washing over you, feeling confused and scared with the same suddenness as a lightning strikes, and you turn around and sit up, looking around, barely awake, trying to see where you are. One thing's for sure - it's bright. As your eyes dart across the square room you're in, you see three floor-to-ceiling windows to your left, by the other side of the bed - because you are in a bed, a huge, king-sized bed, with maroon colored blankets and pillows - and you immediately go breathless from what you can see on the other side of them: The hugest freaking pool you've ever lied your eyes on in your life, constantly being filled by fresh water from a waterfall pouring out of a maybe fake, large piece of rock, that gives it all a really exotic feel. You can see green, fresh, well-cut grass, trees, both large and small, also well-cut and taken care of, a terrace made from a kind of pretty, brown rock similar to the waterfall one, a bunch of deck chairs, looking comfortable and neat and nice and expensive, and a bright, beautiful blue sky.
It all looks nice and well-kept, modern and inviting, only there's one small problem with it all, despite the welcoming layout of it all, that you can't quite seem to be able to ignore: who the hell does it belong to?! Where on Earth are you?! How the hell did you get here?! You sure as hell don't know anyone who can afford a place like this, nor do you know anyone who would want to - okay, Olivia, perhaps, but you know she'd never have the money - so how the hell did you end up here?!
Your thoughts start seeking back, back to last night, trying to recall how you made it here, and slowly, the memories start coming back to you.
You went to work as usual, had an average lunch break - bought yourself a sandwich and a bottle of diet coke - got off at about the same time as usual, went home, grabbed a showe-
Adam.
The call, the begging, the bar, the few drinks that turned to more than a few, his anger, blame, hurt, the drunkenness, more drinks, his failure, pain, a few beers, his sadness, frustration, grief, the heat, talking, loudness, the stillness of the bathroom compared to the noise of the bar... the heat, sweat... His lips.
And you recall.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The kisses, passionate head-on, the feeling of his tongue against yours. His hands, warm and strong going under your shirt, touching your skin. His hips, eager and pressing against yours. The moving around, and then the privacy. Silence. Sounds only made as he zips down first his own, and then your pants, letting them pool to the floor. The feeling of the wall against your back as your legs wrap around his hips. The gasp as he slides in.
You.
''Oh... fuck,'' he murmurs.
The pants and soft moans coming from the both of you as he moves and keeps going, and you just sort of let it happen, until his movements grow frantic in the last few seconds before the world comes crashing down.
The talking, the drinking, the sex.
But no aftermath.
You remember no aftermath.
Why don't you remember the aftermath?
How drunk were you?
You lie in his huge bed - because you're now assuming that this is his house, thus it must also be his bed, although it gives you chills to think of (did he sleep next to you?! It must be his scent you're breathing in) - and stare into the ceiling, afraid to move and leave the room, afraid to meet him, look into his eyes, but at the same time desperate to. Does he remember the same things you do? How does he feel about you being in his bed? Does he want to forget last night happened, or does he want to be reminded of it? And how about yourself? You don't even know how you feel about this. Most of all, you're just confused. Confused and frightened. You want to talk to him, but you feel scared, and you feel embarrassed and shy and very insecure about what happened between the two of you last night, and you're afraid of the awkwardness, of what you'll say and he'll say, so you remain in bed and wait. What you wait for, you don't know, because things won't change just because you stay in Adam Levine's bed all day (after having sex with him....!!!) but it's all you can make yourself do, so you stay. You stay and think, trying to make sense of it all, but it only makes you the much more confused, and after a while, you fight to keep last night out of your head. You turn your head and look out the window, focus on his garden, on his pool and his terrace and his grass and his trees, and you wonder who he pays to take care of it all, and how much money it costs him, and you think about what Olivia would say if she could see you right now - actually, you doubt she'd talk, she'd probably pass out instead. Did she read any of this in one of her magazines? - wait, shit, shit, shit!
The magazines! Paparazzi! Did anyone manage to take snapshots of you and Adam last night? Does anyone know that you're here? Does anyone know what happened? Shit! If anyone saw you walking into Adam Levine's house (or however else you managed to get in here) what aren't they going to say about you? Oh, no, no...
''Hey... you're awake.''
Your racing thoughts come to an abrupt halt as Adam's voice reaches your ears, and caught up in them as you were, you almost jump out of the bed in shock. You turn your head, and see him standing in the door to your right, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a blue T-shirt, looking at you, and his eyes are soft, mild. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't frown either - his face is neutral, maybe a little sad, and you can see that his thoughts are racing, too, although he apparently manages to talk at the same time.
''I'm sorry... I'm sorry I walked in like this, but... It's 1pm,'' he apologizes quietly. ''I just wanted to make sure you were still breathing. I'm sorry if I woke you. Is there anything I can get for you, now that you're awake? I can getcha' something to eat, if you want...''
You hesitate for a moment, your throat completely dry, your thoughts a random storm of emotions and confusion, and you just stare at him, taking a long few seconds before you find the ability to speak.
''Uh... I don't know, uh... Some painkillers, maybe,'' you murmur insecurely, and he nods, and he's out of sight before you can even blink, coming back two minutes later with some painkillers and a bottle of mineral water.
He walks to your bed, and hands both the items over to you, your fingers touching in the progress, and as they do, you feel his eyes on you. You ignore them, and swallow the pills dryly, drinking a few sips of water to flush them down with, and then you hand him the bottle back. He takes it, hesitantly, and then he just stands there, and he seems as damn insecure and confused and scared as you do, as he slowly turns around and gestures towards the door.
''Hey, uh... You wanna come to the kitchen? I'll make us some breakfast,'' he then offers silently, and although you'd like to say yes, just because you're kind of hungry, you're not quite sure you feel like sitting in front of him and chewing... what do superstars eat? Steak? His eyes are pleading, and they're hard to resist, tearing in you, creating striding emotions.
''I'll make some eggs,'' he adds softly, as if he's trying to persuade you, and then you sigh, and give up, starting to get out of bed.
Okay, you think to yourself with another heavy sigh. Let the eggs be the deal breaker.
