Page 12 of Finding Storm

Or maybe I should just pray for a natural disaster to stop me from getting there.

Leaving my cell with my wallet, I push to my feet and quietly walk through the still-darkened suite, dodging the beer and wine bottles scattered on the floor—how fucking much did I drink last night?—as I locate the bathroom.

The light in here is bright as fuck. It makes me wince. I have to rapid-blink to get my eyes to adjust.

Hangovers suck ass.

Still squinting against the light, I take a piss.

While I’m washing my hands, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

I look like shit.

I feel like shit.

Cupping cold water in my hands, I splash it over my face and run my wet hand through my hair. I dry my face and hands on a towel.

Turning off the light before exiting the bathroom so as not to wake anyone with the laser light, I crack the door open and poke my head out.

The suite is silent.

They’re still sleeping.

I locate my clothes in a heap by the bottom of the bed. Clearly, I was in a hurry to strip because I dropped the lot there in a pile. That, or drunk me was readying myself for this morning’s great escape. I get dressed in relative silence, which for a guy of my size is no mean feat.

I’ve gotten proficient at this shit. Sneaking out of hotel rooms.

Not something I’m wholly proud of, but obviously, I don’t learn.

I tiptoe over to the nightstand and retrieve my cell and wallet.

My apartment keys are in my pants pocket, which is a relief. There have been a few instances when I lost the keys to my apartment when I got trashed. Meaning I either lost them or someone took them—quite possibly the someone I’d slept with. So, I’ve had to have my locks changed more times than I’m proud of.

I pocket my cell and wallet. Find my boots by the door and push my bare feet into them.

I glance back over at the still-sleeping forms.

The brunette has rolled over and is sleeping where I vacated.

Dark hair covers her face.

I don’t even know what she looks like, let alone know her name.

And I barely remember what the blonde looks like even though I was pretty much sober when I met her.

I used to be proud of this shit when I was younger.

Younger … fuck, listen to me. I’m twenty-four years old and already jaded as hell.

And I know I should feel bad for skipping out on them, but I don’t. I just want out of here and away from the reminder that I’m just rinsing and repeating the same old shit again.

All it serves to do is remind me of how very little I feel about this—or anything at the moment.

With a quick turn of the lock, handle down, I’m out of there. I quietly close the door behind me.

A glance around the hallway, and I spot the Exit sign and follow it to the elevator.

I press the call button. The elevator arrives almost immediately. When I reach the stylish lobby, I look around to see where the fuck I am.