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21
CORA
I jolt awake.
My chest is heaving and my eyes can’t seem to settle. I look for something, anything, to ground me. To remind myself that this has all been a dream. The party, Ivan, the shooting… all of it.
But I don’t see my bright yellow alarm clock with the googly eye stickers over the buttons. I don’t see the stack of CDs I’ve thrifted over the years even though I don’t have a working CD player. I don’t see the framed photo of me and Mom from when I was seven, the only one I have without my stepfather in it.
Instead, I see a four-poster bed with cream-colored silk curtains tied around each post. There’s a long wooden dresser topped with an ivory vase filled with blood red roses. The frames on the walls are gilded and the carpet is plush.
The last thing I remember is climbing into Ivan’s car. I closed my eyes at one point. I must’ve fallen asleep. Now, I’m here.
What happened in between?
There’s a large window on the wall to my left. The curtains are drawn, but a sliver of daylight peeks through a crack. It’s not much, but at least I know it isn’t nighttime.
That’s something.
“Hello?” My tired voice is barely more than a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. “Hello?”
There’s a door a few feet to my right. It’s open, but I don’t hear anything beyond. Slowly, I slide out from under the impossibly silky sheets and walk to the door.
A massive bathroom stretches out in front of me. There’s a single sink set in a long vanity. The mirror is framed in gold; so is the glass shower door. The tiles are iridescent, a pearly white that changes colors as I move from side to side. A fresh stack of towels sits on the counter.
Suddenly, I feel filthy.
My hair smells like gunpowder and I have the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Without a second thought, I strip out of my clothes and start the shower.
Steam swirls in the air, warming the bathroom to a toasty temperature my drafty apartment bathroom has never been capable of.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy a really incredible shower.
It can also buy soap and hair products that smell like manna from heaven. I scrub and rinse off and, once my skin is clean and pink, I kill the flow and dry off with a fluffy white towel.
The fairytale shatters when I realize I have to step back into my work uniform. No fairy godmother to magic me into a clean pair of sweats.
I pull my panties free of my pants and wince at how damp they are. I vaguely remember dreaming while I slept. Ivan’s hands on me in dark corners. His voice in my ear. The tension inside me building and building and…
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter.
I toss my shamefully soiled panties into a small trash can to hide the evidence and grimace as I pull on the polyester uniform over my bare skin.
Once I figure out where the hell I am, my first order of business will be a change of clothes.
It takes a few minutes for me to work up the courage to leave my room. When I finally crack the door open, I recognize the hallway immediately.
The maroon carpet runner and the beige walls with warm wood trim.
This is where Ivan hosted his party last night. It makes sense that he actually lives here, I suppose. I just can’t imagine it. Throwing lavish parties here? Sure. Padding around in holey flannel pajamas and watching Hallmark movies? Not exactly.
Though I doubt Ivan even has holey flannel pajamas. Picturing him in pajamas at all is a stretch. He is probably one of those hyper masculine guys who sleeps in the nude.
The thought sends heat burning to my face, and I quickly redirect my train of thought.
What a horrendously gaudy wall sconce. Only a real asshole would pick that out.
I’m still staring at the sconce, trying to think of anything except Ivan’s bare, muscled body, when I feel a presence behind me.
