As the first rays of morning sunlight, once a welcomed sight, now a cruelly intrusive irritant, sifted through the pinched pleat curtains, creating a soft, hazy atmosphere, I stirred in a state of disarray, the incessant ringing of my phone piercing the remnants of my throbbing headache like a merciless dagger, its sharp, unyielding edge slashing my head wide open. It's as if my brain, overwhelmed by the tenacious battering, is unable to process the simplest of visual stimuli.
With each passing second, the hangover tightened its uncompromising grip on my consciousness, a war between wakefulness and sleepfulness that started to claw its way back to reality, and the metallic taste of alcohol on my breath, an unpleasant reminder of last night's foolery, left a trace of regret with every exhalation.
In a groggy, painful condition, I groaned into the fluffy pillow and pleaded with a higher power to darken the room, the only healer capable of dispelling the lingering aftereffects of sloppy decision-making.
Why did I think an overconsumption of harsh liquor was a good idea? I should have declined the deadly potion of special bourbon, honey syrup and lemon juice and stuck to ice water.
Sure, from what I can vaguely remember, I felt more relaxed and less inhibited, thanks to Connie, the unqualified yet proficient mixologist, who expertly crafted a delicious cocktail menu, but enjoyable relaxation and enforced demureness only lasted a short while because impaired judgement, decreased coordination and uninhibited behaviour replaced the shoes of dignity and decorum and sent me on a wild goose chase.
With bleary eyes and parchedness of tongue, I reached for the bedside table, blindly searching for the source of the disturbance.
My fingers clumsily grasped the phone, and as I brought it to my ear, ready to answer, the harsh reality of my situation began to unravel.
My heavy eyelids, weighed down by yesterday's lies and deceit, honed in on a series of wooden cupboards, the mahogany doors, with ornate handles, slightly ajar, revealing a peek into the organised chaos within, a curated collection of men's clothing and sports footwear.
Alertness gingerly waded through the murky waters of drowsiness, and I found myself ensnared in a disorienting tangle of unfamiliarity.
A veil of bewilderment shrouded my senses, and when my surroundings, foreign and masculine, came into focus, I bolted upright on the world's comfiest king-sized bed and glared at the door in stark horror, silently begging the universe for cognisance.
Confusion suffocated me.
I struggled to piece together how I had stumbled into an unfamiliar sanctuary of pure masculinity.
The predominant colour palette, cobalt blues and earthy hues, painted the room with a tranquil ambience alongside the transparent sheet utilised as a make-do window net, but every surface—loose change, empty beer bottles, dirty plates and a precarious tower of coffee mugs—bore witness to the insurmountable chasm of disorganisation.
Once-worn clothes lay in tumultuous heaps on the floor, and jackets and T-shirts hung from door handles and bedposts as if they had given up on the notion of ever being folded or placed neatly in the wardrobe.
The huge bed, buried beneath a sprawling maze of unmade sheets, crinkled blankets and overmuch pillows, succumbed to the owner's untidiness.
At least the well-loved books, with dog-eared pages and creased spines, homed the wall-mounted shelf.
And the guy, who owned this bedroom, whoever he is, must love his cologne collection because those glass bottles of manly aromas were carefully arranged in a symmetrical fashion in a sleek, dark wood rack like a shrine of deities.
Despite the tumult of disorderliness, there was a method to the room's madness. Each item, each trinket, piece of décor and spec of memorabilia told a story of a well-loved life. It was a haven of wonderful serenity and elegiac wistfulness, where hoarding and disarray coexisted in perfect harmony.
My head pulsated relentlessly, a steady percussion of pain that resonated from temple to temple.
Honestly, If I did not know any better, I would assume there was a troupe of miniature drummers parading inside my head, whacking the shit out of my central nervous system.
Crushing the phone in my hand, I threw the duvet off my body and tentatively swung my legs over the edge of the bed, ready to stand, when the side-shattering reality of my situation hit me like an unforgiving tidal wave.
Why am I naked?
Feeling the coolness of the air against my bare skin, an evident disparity to the warmth of the blanket moments ago, I retraced mental steps to recall how I had ended up in someone's bed as naked as the day I was born. I never, not even at home, slept without pyjamas.
Heart palpitating in my chest, echoing through the cavern of my ribcage like a dreadful drumroll, I squeezed my eyes shut and desperately sought answers to a night I could scarcely remember: music, alcohol, conversations and a strained, rather hostile interaction with Royce.
An orchestra of queasiness, twisting and turning, played out in my stomach. My eyes darted around the room, hunting for explanations in its foreign contours.
Memories from the previous night were a fragmented puzzle. I had awakened in an unfamiliar bed, confused and undressed, with no recollection of how I had got there.
Skin prickling with an icy sweat as my mind raced with far-fetched concepts, I grabbed my clothes that were haphazardly scattered across the floor and worked quickly to make my appearance somewhat presentable.
As I fumbled with my phone, the screen illuminated with a series of unanswered messages and missed calls from an important contact: Daniel.
My breath came out in ragged gasps.
The bedroom had a grandstand view of my silent turmoil. I grappled with a maelstrom of questions, uncertainties, and apprehensions, the unfamiliarity of it all weighing heavily upon me. My husband will lose his mind when he finds out what I have done.
With each passing moment, the magnitude of my situation crystallised. In a haste to escape this madness, I fell into the sideboard, knocking over empty beer bottles. I assessed the damage in the mirror. My bedraggled state came into focus: hair sticking out in all directions, black smudges under my eyes, lipstick smeared across my cheek and alcohol on the front of my dress.
However, the dishevelment of my appearance is the least of my concerns.
In the reflection's periphery, I spotted a muscle-bound man, clearly undressed, in the bed behind me.
Time passed.
In that charged moment, the room held its breath and questions suspended in the air like a chilling mist. I turned around, slightly on my toes, belatedly realising that the man was none other than my best friend's brother, Drew Bishop.
Drew's form was bare, exposed in powerless slumber, with the duvet concealing his most intimate area. His chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep, the lines of his body sculpted by the gentle play of shadows and light. Long lashes brushed against his cheek, and a faint smile graced his lips as if he were lost in a pleasant dream. His brown hair, once meticulously groomed, is a wild tangle of unruly handsomeness.
He must have sensed an onlooker because his eyes, tired and bloodshot, snapped open, and I immediately fell victim to the seriousness of his hard eyes.
"Afternoon," he croaked, his throat scratchy from the imbibition of alcohol. "I see you found your underwear."
My breath quickened.
Trapped in a hellacious nightmare, as if encumbered by invisible chains, I prayed for a slap of reality, for an explanation of the unknown. "No," I whispered, and the man's eyebrows jumped to his hairline. "Oh, God. What have I done?"
A tempest of emotions I could barely control wrapped around me like a vice, choking my words and dragging me into the murky abyss of guilt and perplexity.
"Olivia..." Drew's deep voice, usually steady, harboured a hint of wariness as if he were navigating a treacherous terrain where trust was a scarce commodity. "It's not what you think." Every word that passed his lips was chosen with care, each sentence a constructed fort of self-restraint. "I never fucked you—"
"Oh, and I suppose I should thank you for being a gentleman?" My question flowed like honeyed sarcasm, each syllable laced with unmistakable irony. "Must I be grateful you refrained from sleeping with an intoxicated woman?"
"Yeah, actually." Drew's lips curled into a sardonic smile, a wry twist that betrayed the true intent behind his words. His eyes, though sparkling with amusement, held a glint of mockery as if they were in on the joke whilst I remained painfully ignorant. "I mean, you made it very hard to say no, what, with you stripping off and throwing yourself at me."
"No, I would never..." My sentence flatlined when his lips stretched into the smile of a Cheshire Cat. "You are lying."
"I wish I were lying." Drew examined his short fingernails with a bored expression. "Unfortunately for you, I am too honest for my own good. You wanted me, plain and simple. You are lucky that I spurned your advances..." His features retained a veneer of composure, with a ghost of a knowing smile playing subtly at the edges of his mouth. "Or else I could have performed with 'the stamina of a Spartan warrior.'"
I felt sick to my stomach.
"That's what you asked me." His pointer finger jabbed in my direction as he soared from the bed. "You wanted to know if I had the ability to sustain the speed and the physical power of a militaristic trojan." Unfazed by the flaccid, external male intromittent organ hanging between his legs, he seized a pair of grey jogging bottoms on the brown leather armchair and moved briskly to make himself decent. "FYI, I'm one of the most feared warriors of the ancient world, a reincarnation of King Leonidas. I can fuck like the best of them if you are genuinely interested, but I prefer my women to be less slobber-ish during a make-out session."
"It is impossible to take you seriously," I replied, so short of breath. "And I do not slobber, nor do I behave romantically with anyone other than my husband."
"I'll have to take your word for it." Drew's bare chest, bathed in the soft, golden light of the rising sun, glowed with radiant heat and a smattering of pictorial hair, dark and untamed, added a rugged charm to his picture-worthy torso. "Inquiry time." He used air quotes to question the validity of the statement that is sure to follow. "If physical intimacy is reserved for your beloved husband, why did you knock on my bedroom door last night and ask to sleep in my bed? You could have gone home. I offered to drive you to the cliff house."
Drew's question hung over my head like an unspoken accusation. My lips parted to speak, but no words emerged. Instead, there was a harrowing quietness, a hesitation born from the disordered conglomeration of pessimistic thoughts that jack-hammered through my mind like a demolition tool.
His jogging bottoms rode low on his prominent waistline, the fabric clinging to his hips and thighs. Then, without any reason at all, he bridged the divide of our differences, fostering a perception of unity and connection. His sudden nearness was commanding. He moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his every gesture deliberate and purposeful, and when he spoke, his strident voice undertook the onus of real leadership.
"Hannah's Sidekick." Gone were the innocuous jests and light-hearted quips that had once defined this man's interactions. In the gravity of his words, there was a sincerity that demanded instantaneous respect, that even the most joyous of souls could be serious when they wanted to. "Do I need to spell it out for you?"
He looked down at me, his expression a complicated blend of vexation, frustration and defenselessness. His jaw clenched with determination, and his eyes blazed with a fierce resolve.
"I do not have the answer." My eyes watered with the shimmering drops of uncertainty that threatened to spill. Each tear held a question, a tight-lipped request for answers to the mystery that had intertwined its detailed web around me. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not a whore. I disturbed you last night, and for that, I apologise. I can promise you that it will never happen again."
"Who mentioned whores?" His heated gaze travelled over my face and settled on my lips for a heartbeat. Then, with a final, lingering sweep, his eyes returned to meet mine, locking in a connection that transcended words. "You got drunk, Olivia. You let your hair down and enjoyed yourself. Am I mad you woke me up and waltzed around the bedroom in your birthday suit? No, I ain't mad. I can appreciate and admire a gorgeous woman with a banging body."
My face, I am sure, is bright red.
"Confused," he said, his lips pushed into a surly pout. "But not mad."
At that moment, I was humiliated by my actions and the frailty of my judgment. "Thank you for not taking advantage of the situation. I was wrong to presume otherwise." With that, I headed for the door, eager to get far away from here and salvage whatever dignity I had left. "And thanks again for being so welcoming and generous with your time and resources."
Drew's husky laughter existed simultaneously with the clumsiness of my footsteps. In a hurry, I rushed out of the bedroom and stumbled down the hallway, my bare feet slipping on the cold, hardwood floor.
God knows where I put my shoes last night.
Using my fingers to comb through the end of my hair, I walked into the dimly illuminated living room, a space permeated with odours, stale beer and acrid cigarettes, and fell upon an unexpected sight. There, sprawled out on the sofa, is Connie, wearing a rather daring zebra-print lingerie set, her dark locks cascading over the armrest like an obsidian waterfall.
A cable-knit throw blanket is on the coffee table. I took it into my hands and covered her body, as I did not want her to feel a chill and get cold. I did not wish to disturb her, either. So, without further ado, I left the beach house, closing the old wooden door behind me.
A warm, salty breeze hit me in the face. My feet had only just stepped onto the wooden decking when my phone vibrated with a call.
No, I take back everything I said.
Not a call.
FaceTime.
Daniel is requesting a video service.
Shit.
In the hushed stillness of the early morning, I moved with calculated stealth and descended the wooden stairs that led to the sandy shore. And then, in the blink of an eye, I lost my balance.
My footsteps faltered.
Gravity's merciless pull snatched me by the ankles, ripped a scream out of my throat and threw me down the steps.
Time slowed to a funeral pace as I tumbled forward, the air rushing past me and the rustic wood scraping against my skin.
With an abrupt thud, I landed on the beach, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through my body. Sand erupted around me, filling the air with a swirling cloud of gritty particles. Tiny pieces of quartz attacked my senses, invading my eyes, nose and mouth.
As I lay there, coughing and spluttering, body battered, pride wounded, I rolled around in the sand to locate my bearings.
My vision was obscured by gritty grains of sand.
I wiped the arid dust out of my eyes and, disoriented beyond belief, answered my husband's FaceTime call with an anticipatory swipe of the thumb.
Daniel's face, framed by the tantalising sliver of his neck and the collar of his shirt, appeared on the phone screen. "Oli," he said with a pleased smile. "What happened? I have been calling you for hours."
"Hi," I responded with a reciprocal smile. "Sorry I took so long to answer. I woke up early and decided to walk along the beach..." The guilt of lying to my husband made it difficult to breathe. "My phone was on silent."
"Did you forget to remove your makeup last night?" He gave me a stern look. "Only, there is mascara under your eyes and lipstick on your cheek..."
Oh, God. Why did I not make a pitstop to the bathroom and clean the remnants of makeup off my face before I left Connie's beach house? I must look horrendous, like a dirty stop out, doing the walk of shame.
"I did," I lied again, fracturing the bond of our trust. "I had planned to do a video for my website yesterday and played around with different looks..." His stare sharpened with every word. "Then I drained an entire bottle of wine and figured I'd concentrate on vlogging tomorrow...Foolish would be an understatement."
"Right," he said, and I could feel the density of his disbelief coming through the phone. "What time did you venture to the beach?"
"Oh, I am not too sure." Scratching the back of my head, I lay on the sand, the sun's bright beams too piercing for the eyes. "At dawn, perhaps."
"Dawn," he said whispery, his jaw rocking back and forth. "Oli, why do you lie to me? I came home early last night. I wanted to surprise you." He slammed a chariot of gifts onto the desk: a bouquet of white flowers, a bottle of red wine and a box of handmade chocolate. "Imagine my surprise when I walked through the door, expecting to see my beautiful wife and finding an empty house instead." His brows knitted in a harsh, thunderous scowl that sent shivers down my spine. "You failed to answer phone calls and respond to text messages. I deserve answers, Oli."
My stomach tightened.
"All night, I stayed in the billiard room, monitoring the front door, waiting for you to come home," he proceeded to lecture me, to which he was entitled. "As you can understand, I was extremely worried about you, so I called Hannah, Rochelle, and Jaqueline. How ironic that not one of your closest friends knew your whereabouts..."
Pushing out of the sand, I stood tall, the phone in my hand almost slipping through my fingers. "Okay, if I tell you something, I need you to promise not to be angry."
Daniel's hands locked behind his head as his body swayed back and forth in the executive chair of our home office. "I'm listening."
"It was my error. I drank too much alcohol. I never lied about that," I explained, knowing I had every intention of spinning another untruth. "Stupidly, I concluded that it was time to get over my fears and face the outside world again, with or without company, so I made the impulsive decision to leave the cliff house last night and go for a walk..." My throat is so dry, I could vomit. "The last thing I remember is waking up on the beach. I must have fallen asleep..."
"Olivia," he scolded, and I winced at the chastisement, the sting of reproach and disappointment. "How could you be so naive? You, of all people, should know that it's unsafe to wander around the village alone at night. One might think that you are asking for trouble."
"I am sorry," I said, and I meant it because all the events that led me to Connie's beach house were irresponsible and unpardonable. I had no right to make this man grey with apprehension. He has suffered enough over the last few months. "You are right. I was not thinking clearly. I should have never left the cliff house when under the influence of alcohol. I do not know what came over me."
"Just..." His mouth was taut, almost as if he was biting back the exasperation that wanted to come out in a fit of uncontrollable rage. "Come home safely and immediately. We need to talk."
"Of course," I reassured him, wishing I could take back last night--that I could be at the cliff house when he walked in from work in exchange for partying with a bunch of people I barely knew for the sake of Natasha Stewart's salvation. "I love you."
A memory came flooding back, transporting me to a moment frozen in time, where I had turned to him in bed, skin-on-skin, and breathed those three cherished words and, in response, his lips curved into a smile against my own, a smile of pure, unadulterated affection. "My heart is not on loan to you," he whispered between kisses, his strong, muscular body leaning into me, his firm, rough hand cradling my cheek as if I were the most precious thing in the world. "It's yours to keep when you are ready to take it."
"I love you, too," Daniel replied after a prolonged silence. "Look lively."
With a flat smile, I ended the call and collapsed where I stood, resuming my position on the sand, the hot, granular grains sticking to the back of my arms and legs.
Locked phone resting in my hand, momentarily forgotten, I draped an arm over my eyes, a feeble attempt to shield myself from the sun's punishing blaze.
I was lost in a mental tug-of-war, wrestling with the decision to dwell on the picturesque beach or do the mile-long walk home, the hindrance of my thoughts bearing down on me, when suddenly, like a whisper in the sea breeze, I felt a subtle shift in the air, a change in the atmosphere that picked at my senses.
Irrespective of my resolve to bypass the ridiculous sensation of being under surveillance, of being someone's focus of attention, to see if there was any credence to this theory, I let my thirst for knowledge prevail and peered from beneath my arm.
My gaze, sharp and searching, traversed the sandy path to Connie's beach house. There was an inkling, a suspicion, that someone might be there, hidden from view, watching me, but the house remained silent and still, not a twitch of the curtains or a creak of the windows.
And then, inexplicably, I found my gaze drawn toward the beach house of my ghost's ex-boyfriend.
With a magnetic pull of the eyes, I became an unwitting participant in Royce Milton's grand spectacle.
Royce graced the wooden balcony on the second floor, bare-chested and bare-footed—his entire body shredded with muscle and painted with dark ink. The flimsy material of his black jogging bottoms sagged at his waistline, daring to flirt with the eye of the beholder. His perfectly sculpted washboard abs, accentuated by a dark strip of hair that led southward, glistened with droplets of sweat. Or perhaps a recent shower is responsible for the trail of glittering dews between his well-defined pectoral muscles.
My mouth dried.
Maintaining unbroken eye contact with me, he leaned against the wooden railing, his strong arms bearing the marks of his physical prowess. His hands cradled a ceramic mug, its liquid contents steaming gently in the morning air.
When he raised his choice of beverage to his lips, quenching his thirst with a sizeable sip, the chords of muscle in his biceps contracted, his sinews tensed, and his forearms bulged.
Royce was silent, occasionally sipping at the mug, as the heterochromatic irises of his steely eyes challenged me to converse.
If I did not have an angry husband at home, pacing the home office like a madman, I might have been tempted to try and get on his good side, but the investigation of Natasha Stewart could wait for one day.
Daniel is more important.
Although, Royce was definitely something to look at.
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I will be back for typos. ❤️
Thoughts on the update?
—Olivia?
—Drew?
—Connie?
—Daniel?
—Royce?
—Natasha?
—Hannah?
—Jaqueline?
—Rochelle?
Are there any mentions I missed?
Do you have any theories? 👀
Thank you for reading. ❤️
Please don't forget to vote. 💫