Page 100 of Blacklist

30

Adair

Present Day

I roll over, clutching a sheet to my chest, and stare around the unfamiliar room, my heart beginning to pound as hard as my head. I have no idea where I am. Next to me, the bed is empty. It’s been years since I woke up this hungover—or this confused. It doesn’t help that blank walls stare back, giving me nothing to ground myself with. No pictures. I look for any clue. One nightstand with no photos. My shoes and jeans on a rug next to the bed. I turn toward the blinding light and realize there’s an unbroken pane of windows and it’s clearly morning. Outside it’s all unbroken blue skies. I’m up high—penthouse high. This realization sinks in and then plummets right into a pit in my stomach.

I spent the night with Sterling.

I can recall most of the evening prior to leaving the Barrelhouse. After that, I think hot chicken was involved. The rest? I have no clue. I don’t know what’s worse: that he brought me home or that I can’t remember it?

“Gather your dignity and your panties,” I coach myself, “and get out of here.”

My phone is charging on the nightstand, which is surprisingly thoughtful for someone who took a drunk woman to bed. I yank it free from the wall and drop the cord on the ground.

I’m not sure who to call. Poppy and Kai are nearby if they’re still at her place, but calling Poppy means admitting what happened. I’m not sure I’m ready to do that. There’s always Uber—the modern walk of shame. I need to get out of here before he comes back and uses his charm to talk me out of leaving. I’m considering stealing his car when his head pops into the room. I clutch the sheet like a life preserver and glare at him.

“You’re up,” he says.

“Well spotted.” When he doesn’t make a move to climb into bed with me, I decide it’s now or never. Throwing off the sheet, I scramble for my jeans, ignoring the heat blooming on my cheeks.

“Leaving so soon?” he says dryly. He steps inside the room and leans against the wall. If I wasn’t certain his appearance confirms my suspicions. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I turn my head but not before I get a glimpse of the many assets he has on offer these days.

I can feel his eyes following me, watching as I wiggle on my jeans and adjust my bra. His interest is as shameless as taking me home in the first place. “I can’t believe you.”

I’m not sure why I trusted Sterling. Because of who he used to be? That’s clearly not who he is now. The worst part is that it feels like my fault. I’d been the one to suggest the fake relationship. I’d been stupid enough to pretend that we were together in front of my friends. No one thought twice about leaving me with him last night, even if I was drunk. All because of this little game.

“What do you think happened, Adair?” he asks slowly.

“Let’s see,” I explode. “I wake up in your bed without my pants after drinking half the whiskey in Nashville the night before. I think it’s pretty obvious what happened.”

“Feel free to tell me.” He crosses his arms over bare chest, and I try to ignore how his biceps flex into a massive coil at the motion.

“I can’t believe you took advantage of me.” I’m not angry. I’m hurt. I feel my mask slipping away, revealing the part of me I’ll never give him again. I can’t help it. It’s not that I trusted Sterling before last night. I know he’s hiding plenty from me: how he wound up back in Nashville with a bank account capable of buying a million-dollar penthouse, where he’s been for the last few years, why he’s really come back. I’m not stupid enough to believe it has anything to do with me. Not really. But I never thought he’d stoop to taking a drunk woman to bed.

“You think I raped you?” he asks flatly.

“I mean,” I splutter, hating that he’s actually said it. “I guess it’s not really…”

“Let’s be clear,” he interrupts me. “If I took you to bed in that state, it’s rape.”

I lift my chin defiantly, my fingers slipping as I try to lace my shoes. “Yes, it is.”

“I agree.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I just stare.

“But I didn’t sleep with you,” he adds. He points to the other side of the bed as though it’s proof.

Unlike the rumpled side I woke up on, the sheet over the mattress is smooth with not even the slightest indentation in the crisp bedding. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You were still dressed,” he says.

“My jeans were on the floor.”

“You took them off. I think you were going to strip completely,” he admits, “but you passed out before you did. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s that I didn’t stay up and watch you all night to make sure you were okay. I’m sorry for that. I slept on the couch with Zeus so he wouldn’t keep trying to jump into bed and wake you up.”

My jaw clenches, locking my words in place until they’re backed up in my throat, scratching for release until it feels as raw as the rest of me. Finally, I manage to force out, “How can I believe you?”