Wolven

2b. super duper party poopers

The terrible taste of my mouth eased the hints of anxiety I'd felt spike my heart. Always Jameson—knocked me out with no mercy every time, but usually an assurance of a night well spent. It often came after the initial confusion of waking up in someone else's bed. I was even naked, I noted as I pushed myself to my elbows with a yawn. Naked and hungover as hell. My head throbbed just with the effort of breathing. I sunk back into the soft pillow, breathing a sigh. I knew I should get up and get out before I got in trouble for trespass or, by worse chance, got caught in a clarifying and embarrassing conversation about my levels of sobriety.

I could always sneak out the window, but the bed was just so comfortable. And I didn't know how far the drop would be on the other side. So instead, I closed my eyes and rolled onto my back, stretching out my arms to enjoy the space of the bed. The back of my hand brushed against something warm and I stiffened, my heartbeat racing. I turned to look over at what I'd touched, trying to remember who I'd ended up with. Usually, I could remember.

The guy in bed with me didn't ring a bell. Didn't look all that familiar either. Definitely not Tristan. The covers were pushed down to reveal the olive shade of his skin. His dark hair was a little fly-away, sticking up in all sorts of angles. I could smell the sex and alcohol that hung between us. The curve of his torso rose and fell as he breathed, but still no memories reached me.

My body shuddered in deep places, as if reliving whatever had happened last night. I tried to guess who it was from the soft sound of his breath. It must be John Stevenson, I decided with a hint of embarrassment. That wasn't a conversation I wanted to have with Elsie again. Even worse for Tristan to find out. Tristan would kill me if it were John Stevenson.

Maybe it was for the best I didn't stick around to see who it was.

Moving as quietly as I could, I rolled back over, swinging my legs over the side of the bed so I could stand up when the world stopped rocking stopped beneath me. My dress and heels sat in a haphazard pile near the door. Or... one of the doors. There were three doors in this room, not even including the closet.

The faint thought of heading back home to Ivy, who I'd definitely forgotten to text last night, made me hesitate. No doubt she'd flooded me with her calls and angry messages. But where the hell was my phone? Elsie had been holding it for me; I couldn't remember if she crashed in some other guest room or if Baxter had driven her home.

I have to move, I told myself with exhaustion, and pushed myself up from the bed.

A hand grabbed my wrist. I nearly jumped right out of my skin, my heart slamming into my throat as I turned around. My bedfellow had been stirring awake in my moment of hammered thinking and I hadn't even noticed.

"I'm sorry," he said when I turned around to face him in shock. It was not, in fact, John Stevenson, but a ridiculously, outrageously, devastatingly gorgeous face that I only barely recognized in my faintest memory.

"I, uh... for what?" It took half my strength just to get the sentence out. His hand was still clasped around my wrist, warm and firm enough to set my head pounding even harder. I tried to blink the blush out of my face.

"I didn't mean to take advantage of you last night," he answered. The rough, 'I've-just-woken-up' huskiness of his voice made me quiver in the most awkward way. His blue-grey eyes searched me, asking a question I didn't understand. "I drank a bit more than I meant to. Things just... happened. I'm so sorry."

I stared at him, my mouth agape until my brain managed to get it working properly.

"It's fine," I told him, my voice softer than I meant it to be. I'd never had a guy apologize for having sex with me before. Usually they just jumped straight to begging me back to bed. Or to kicking me out the door. "It's just sex, no big deal."

I tugged a little bit at my own wrist, but he didn't let me go. His intense gaze was still searching for... I couldn't say. His stupid face was so stupidly gorgeous that it was making me flustered and uncomfortable and excited all at once.

"Let go of me," I told him, wiggling my trapped fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and released me as if he hadn't even realized he'd grabbed me in the first place. The skin around my wrist flushed back to color. "I forget it's different..." He seemed to struggle to find his words. "Did I hurt you?"

"Feels great compared to this hangover," I told him. His eyebrows twitched in concern, so I turned to reassure him: "Seriously, don't worry about it. But I feel like it's getting way too close to the afternoon. I should go, right?"

He dropped himself from his elbow, his head falling back to the pillow, eyes still watching me. His expression lessened into something more melancholy, the shadow of something heavy lingering in his gaze.

"If you want," he said.

"I mean... if you want me to stay, I can stay," I offered, not sure if it was the right thing to say. Half of a smile crept up his lips, lightening his face; a dimple formed in his cheek I mentally smacked myself down as heat flooded to my face.

"If you want," he said again.

My stomach lurched. With vomit or butterflies, I wasn't entirely sure.

"You're one of those new kids at school, huh?" I asked him.

"Clay," he answered with a smile, reaching out a hand to shake.

"Okay, Clay, nice to meet you. I'm Jade. Welcome to our shitty little town." I paused, turning back to face my clothes. "I, uh... You know, I will stay. For a few minutes, why not? But I'm going to get dressed again because... this is kind of uncomfortable."

He seemed satisfied with my compromise, sitting up again to reach for his own boxers which lay strewn across the foot of the bed. I tried not to let myself gawk at him as if he were a zoo animal, being a new kid and all. Part of me was trying to find any signs of similarity between him and Coal, but the only thing that matched was the dark brown of their hair.

Before I'd managed to reach my clothing, one of the doors swung open with half a knock of warning. Outside light flooded the room, making both Clay and I cringe. When my vision cleared away the swirling dots, my blood froze to ice.

An older woman stood in the doorway, her piercing blue eyes looking me over. The look on her face was hard to read, harder even so when she cast it upon Clay standing behind his bed. He'd had time to slip up his boxers, at least; I slammed my arms up to my breast to hide, feeling the nauseous heat of my cheeks in knowing that the dress dangling from my hands barely reached far enough to keep me covered.

There were the similarities I'd been looking for, in the dark line of her brow and the natural smirk of her lips. It had to be Clay's mother. Clay's mother had just walked in on me hidden in her son's room hungover, ass-naked, and ready to hurl.