Time After Time

2

A/N: I'm such an idiot, I didn't mention that this is a change in POV. The POV in chapters will alternate between Mackenzie and Alistair, by the way. :)

|Chapter 2|

•Alistair Beaufort•

I wake up in a stranger’s house. Or at least, a house I’ve never been in before. My head pounds and I can barely raise it without groaning, so I don’t even try to. I slowly, painfully, stretch my arms, knocking over some red paper cups in the process. I hear them clatter onto the floor and I wince at the sound. I strain a little, trying to remember the events of last night, but nothing comes back to me. Perfectly normal.

Then I turn onto my left side and find myself staring right at a girl’s bare back.

“Jesus Christ!” I yell, so loud that I swear I wake up all the other fucking hungover douches like me in the house. But the girl I’m sharing this bed with doesn’t stir, only mumbles something under her breath and turns onto her other side. Quickly, I pull the covers higher so it’s just beneath her chin, covering her chest. Messy brown hair falls into her face, obscuring most of it. Despite that, I don’t recognize her as anyone I know. Still, I feel my stupid cheeks turn red; sure I’ve been to so many parties before, but almost never to get laid. It doesn’t mean it’s my first time—I’ll do it if I feel like it—but at the moment only embarrassment fills me. And the usual guilt that comes after the party, but can quickly be healed with some caffeine. It’s only a small price to pay to forget for just a night.

I roll out of bed as fast as I can with this mean-ass headache—I must have drunk more than the usual—my feet landing on the floor unsteadily. I try to ignore the fact that I’m stark naked and scan the room for my clothes, glancing left and right before finding them strewn over a drawer and littering the ground. I pick them up and begin pulling them on, starting with my socks. Then my boxers. Then my jeans. I’m a bout to button them up when I realize they’re on the wrong way. Shit. Pull down the jeans, put them back on again.

Fuck, my shirt’s missing. I walk around the room, looking around carefully for it. Nothing. I walk around the room again, kneeling on the floor and peering under the bed. Still nothing. Muttering every swear word I know, I make one last round around the bedroom, even though I know it’s futile. My hands slip into my jeans pockets, and I sigh with relief when I come up with my house keys and phone. At least no one got away with those. I catch a quick glimpse at the time, and sigh in relief. It’s not that late.

I tiptoe out of the room and into the hallway, still shirtless. I could have swiped something from the closet in the bedroom, but I don’t have the heart to steal. I don’t even know who lives here—it was some friend of Juan’s, no wonder I don’t know most of the people lying passed out on the ground. I try to ignore the headache, keeping myself steady as I walk down the stairs, gripping the railing with one hand. I’m used to it, anyway. I step over my friend Juan, who’s out cold, sprawled out on the steps.

The whole place’s a mess. Vomit and alcohol possess the air. Two topless girls lie in each other’s arms on a dining room table. The ground’s a minefield of paper cups, beer bottles and Victoria’s Secret lingerie. By the looks of it, the party must have been amazing. If only I could remember it. I pad across the foyer, passing the kitchen along the way when I hear two voices yelling at me, and I freeze.

“Beaufort!” call out Jerome and Marcus Privitera.

I turn towards them warily. They’re sitting at the kitchen island, each clutching a steaming mug in their hands. I can smell their fucking coffee all the way from here, all bitter and shit. They lean casually against the island, with these huge-ass grins on their faces, acting like they don’t see the mess surrounding them. My focus diverts to something on their left, and I see some girl leaning on the counter with her head bent over, pouring coffee.