Page 13
It looked more like the house of a recent college graduate who’d just entered adulthood without all the necessary tools yet. That, or a temporary crash pad.
With one tiny exception. One framed photograph rested on North’s kitchen counter. I thought it an odd place at first, until I realized he probably stood in this very spot most mornings as he drank a cup of coffee. Doing that would give him the perfect eyeline to the picture which had to mean something to him if it was the only personal item I could find.
I lifted the frame, a heavy, expensive wood from the feel of it, and studied the picture inside, instantly drawn in by what I saw. The boy in the picture looked a lot like North, only a lot younger and with an easy, carefree smile I never would have thought him capable of. His arm was thrown over a girl whose age I couldn’t place. She could have been older, but it was hard to tell, given she only came up a little past North’s shoulders.
The picture was old and grainy, so I had to squint, lifting the frame closer to my face to make out her features clearly. She looked to have the same hair and eye color as North, which made me think she was a relative. Surprising, since from the moment he’d come to town, I’d never seen anyone come to visit.
Pushing that thought to the back of my mind, I placed the frame back in its place of reverence and faced into the kitchen once more.
Wanting to give him a nice surprise when he woke up, I moved into the kitchen (nice and spacious, though I would have upgraded the builder-grade cabinets and white appliances myself). The plan was to have coffee and breakfast waiting for him when he woke up. I hoped the fridge wasn’t as barren as the rest of the house.
It was easy enough to find the single-use coffee pods, so after finding the cabinet where he stored his mugs (he had a grand total of two, one travel and one regular), I set to brewing us each a mug and got to work.
Thankfully I found what was needed for eggs and toast, but, aside from a carton of milk, there wasn’t any coffee creamer to be found. “Of course he drinks it black,” I mumbled to myself, looking into my mug and letting out a silent blech at the thought of having to do the same.
Fortunately, the canister beside the loaf of bread (two of only five items, total) contained sugar. If I was going to have to drink the nectar of life without cream, at least it would be sweet. With my own mug doctored to the best of my ability, and North’s ready and waiting, I got to work scrambling four eggs. I wasn’t the best in the kitchen, but thanks to my friend Dakota, who was a crazy successful cooking influencer, I was at least able to get through the basics now.
North was a big dude, so I erred on the side of caution and made more than double what I would if I were by myself.
I was halfway through my cup of coffee (the sugar only did so much) and the eggs were scrambled and fluffy, thanks to my friend Dakota’s instructions, when I finally heard signs of life coming from North’s room.
Unfortunately, what I heard made me think he woke up with a whole lot less enthusiasm than I had.
“What the fuck?”
North
I woke up to the smell of coffee and food cooking.
At least that was what I thought until the percussion section of the world’s shittiest marching band made itself known by jamming out to “Eye of the Tiger” right behind my eyeballs.
Jesus, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this shitty. My head was killing me and my mouth, on top of being dry as the Sahara, tasted like I’d been sucking on a bag full of rotting garbage.
Hangover.
It took me a few seconds to remember why I was in my current state. Then it all came back to me. Well, at least the parts prior to the blackout I’d been striving for.
I remembered it had been Cora’s birthday, and I’d gone to Toni’s to drown my sorrows. I recalled making pretty good work of that while simultaneously ghosting my parents’ calls when Cortland Pope joined me, reminding me of the wheels I’d already set into motion and making me an offer I sure as hell hadn’t been expecting.
Then . . . nothing. Everything that came after was a huge blank, a throbbing question mark lit up in neon. I couldn’t even tell you how I got home. Usually I made wiser decisions than that, especially given my status as an outcast at work. I’d kicked an anthill and now they were pissed. Luckily, I somehow made it home safely.
Every muscle in my body ached as I pushed to sitting with a pained groan. Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I dug my feet into the carpet, braced my elbows on my knees, and scrubbed at the scruff coating my cheeks and rubbing the lingering sleep out of my eyes before pressing my thumbs into their sockets for some relief.
That was when I noticed something was off.
As a cop, I knew that all kinds of shit could go down at any time, so I always made sure to be as prepared as possible, even in my sleep. Until last night.
Which meant I never slept naked, but as I dragged my eyes open, I realized my underwear was nowhere to be found. As I scanned the floor for my clothes, I spotted a few articles that couldn’t have possibly been mine.
Beside my own discarded jeans was a much smaller pair. A jewel-toned bra hung from the knob of my nightstand. “What the fuck?” I let out on a gust of air. Beside a pair of tiny women’s shoes was a thong in the same matching shade of emerald.
“What the fuck?”
Then I heard it. The sound like a clatter of dishes carried from the front of the house, down the hall, and into my room. Whoever the hell had brought me home last night was still here.
As I shot across the room to my dresser, yanking the top drawer open and pulling on the first pair of sweats my hand landed on, my mind filled with flashes of red and flickering images of a bare body backdropped by my sheets.
Frustration coursed through me as I slammed my eyes closed and tried my hardest to call up more memories of the night before, but my foggy brain wouldn’t cooperate.
