Page 9 of Secret Obsession
I scowl up at him. “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
I need to get my bearings—and fast.
He lifts one shoulder. “Why don’t you come on out and see?” With that, he just turns on his heel and disappears from my doorway. Leaving me alone and totally confused.
I run my hands through my hair. The shortness of it reminds me of everything I went through for the past year, and I steel myself. I climb to my feet and hurry straight into the bathroom. My reflection almost makes me scream again.Almost. But holy shit, I’m terrifying.
Makeup smeared everywhere, my hair a mess, my eyes bloodshot.
The headache is still there, pounding against my temples. It kind of feels like my brain is going to explode. I ignore it in favor of scrubbing at my face with a makeup remover wipe, peeling off my false eyelashes and dropping them on the counter.
When I rinse away the last traces of last night, I meet my gaze and flinch again.
There are dark circles under my eyes, which are still red.
Teeth brushed, tongue scrubbed, clothes changed, and I finally feel human enough to venture into the living room.
Miles stands at my kitchen counter, pressing buttons on my coffee maker. I barely glance at him, because there’s a man sitting on the floor, in the middle of the open space. Not that there’s much open space, but it seems like Miles had no problem redecorating while I slept. My couch is pushed to the far wall, the plants shoved in the corner. The man sits on my area rug, his arms behind his back, and his legs… his legs are duct taped from his ankles all the way up to mid-thigh, extended out in front of him.
The most concerning part is the blood.
His shirt is covered in it, plastered to his skin and seeping from a hole in the fabric at his side.
“Wh—what is this?” I glance from the man, whose mouth is also taped, to Miles.
Miles sips his coffee and levels me with a single look. A look that has my stomach plummeting to the floor.
“How’s your head?” he asks instead of answering me.
I can’t seem to move. “I’m… it’s…”
“Hurts? A bit more than a usual hangover?” He lifts one shoulder. “Or maybe it feels the same as a hangover. I don’t fucking know how date rape drugs work.”
Date rape drugs?
Miles glowers at me. “This is why we don’t take drinks from strange men who want to fuckingrape you!” he shouts.
“Don’t yell at me.” I cringe. “In what sort of world do we live in that I have to go out and mind all my drinks, and then—and then I get blamed for some douchebag’s decision to put something in my drink?”
“The rest of us are living in reality,” he snaps.
He sets the mug down—my favorite mug, I note with disdain—and comes stomping toward me. I backpedal, not necessarily afraid of him, but I really would rather not deal with any of this.
And being drugged doesn’t…
I scan my body. Miles is close enough to hear me whisper, “But he didn’t, right?”
Images of the man holding me against him, his hand between my legs, flash in front of my eyes. And I went back and danced with him again? Accepted more drinks from him?
I swear, Miles’ expression softens for a split second. “No, he didn’t.” Then it’s right back to loathing. “And if you thank God before you thank me, I swear, Willow…”
A few realizations hit at once.
One: Miles was looking out for me.
Two: he has a black eye, a bruised cheekbone and throat. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have those the night before. Pair that with the blood on the guy, the wound that’s clearly from a weapon of some sort, and…
Three: something really bad could’ve happened last night.
