Midnight Muse

I blink away the bleariness, the dizziness from my vision, staring down at my lap. I’m still wearing the t-shirt and tight jeans I ambled over to Slate’s party in, and the fabric sticks to my skin uncomfortably. I feel like shit all around, sick from the alcohol, dirty from the night spent dancing and sweating, and I’m pretty sure my breath smells like I licked the floor of the local dive bar.

Another blink brings the sheets into focus, certainly ones that are not mine. These are a deep charcoal color, softer and smoother than anything I’ve ever touched. The thread count must be in the thousands. The mattress beneath my aching body feels like a cloud, and all of the effort that went into curating such a lovely bed surely shouldn’t be wasted.

I’m impressed for a few seconds until I lift my head and realize where I am.

Knox’s room.

It’s easy to tell because last night’s memories are slowly rolling in like I’m flipping through the pages of my sketchbook.

“Look,” Slate grunts as I stumble again. He rights me back on my feet. He’s only faring slightly better than I am right now, but only because there are women to flirt with. “I know our friendship is still kind of new, but if you keep hanging all over me like this, you’re going to scare away the ladies.”

I can’t help but laugh. It feels good, so good that my chest aches with it. I can feel the blistering heat of my cheeks from the drinks I’ve downed, but it’s a nice warmth, one I want to bask in.

“Where are your keys?” Slate asks. His hands are hot on my hips where he’s trying to keep me from falling flat on my face. Maybe the last shot we had taken together had been one too many. “Can I pat down your pockets?”

“I know you wanna feel me up, Slate,” I slur playfully. His name sounds snake-like with the way I drag the S.

“Of course I do, Quinnie girl. Any man would be stupid not to want you,” he comments but his words don’t register because the floor is slipping out from under my feet again.

“Rory has the keys,” I hiccup. Then, “Are we on a roller coaster? The room is spinning.”

Slate curses, and there’s more movement that I can’t keep up with. My eyelids are shutting slowly and I can barely muster the energy to keep them open.

I’ve wilted into Slate’s chest, rubbing my cheek along the soft fabric of his shirt as he digs around in his pocket for something that jingles nicely. After puttering around with something, he guides me into Knox’s room.

“Oh, my fucking God,” I groan at the memory, holding my head when my curse rings in my ears. Of course I’m in Knox’s room, because I’m fated to end up in situations that will make him hate me even more.

Slowly, I manage to shove the blankets away, slipping my legs over the edge of the bed. The good news is, I feel like I’ve slept for one hundred hours. The other good thing is that I haven’t thrown up anywhere in his room that I can see, or smell.

Yet.

The bad news is that I don’t actually know where Knox is, I’m thankful nonetheless that he’s not here to witness me rising from the dead.

He probably stayed the night over at his date’s house. As much as that makes a hot wave of jealousy roll like a tidal wave in my stomach, it’s much better than him being here. So much better.

Blindly, I reach for my phone, patting across the table next to the bed. In the back of my throat there’s a lump that I consciously have to work to swallow down. Later, I might regret not purging the rest of the sickness from my body, but the last place I want to do that is here, in Knox’s room. What the fuck did I end up drinking last night? I remember the flaming shots and Slate throwing out the partygoer who made them, but the rest of the night is a Mad Lib of surprises.

There was Mandy, who told me all about Ace while they were growing up over a few drinks. The longer Slate forced us to talk, presumably so he could sneak off to flirt with girls while I was distracted, the more Ace’s cousin seemed to relax around me. Those cutting looks had turned from pinning me to my spot to glaring at any of the girls who came up to us to ask about Slate.

Mandy’s stories had me seeing Ace in a different light. And the embarrassing ones were even better. Like the time they’d gone sledding down the slope behind Mandy’s family home in Colorado. It had been a steep incline and they’d been warned many times not to go down there, but the fresh snow had been all too tantalizing not to.

Their punishment had been to walk back up the hill to the house, and when they were young, the trek felt like it was a million miles high. And they had to tow their sleds behind them. Ace had thrown up halfway and Mandy had gotten sick from the tears of laughter streaming down her face afterwards.

I learned that she’s studying up in New York at a prestigious fashion school. Her outfit made much more sense then. She and Ace are close, his parents often so busy with their jobs in the art world that they spent a lot of time growing up together.

My fingers finally connect with my phone and my head throbs at the brightness of my screen, rivaling the sun’s rays spearing through the cracks in the blinds.

And then I see the time.

“Shit,” I curse, scrambling for the shoes someone kindly taken off for me. They’re piled haphazardly by the foot of the bed.

I’m late for class.

Ugh, I can’t even remember the last time I drank like this. It must have been sometime last year because even with all of the wine I consumed during Tipsy Canvas, I hadn’t felt this bad. This is a next level hangover.

I brace myself when my hand lands on the doorknob. There’s a lock and it’s flipped shut. I turn it back carefully, pleased when the click is soft.

When I pull the door open, I freeze in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. Knox is lying on the couch, his body splayed out in a long, hard line. His shirt has risen from where he’s lifted his arm, resting it over his eyes to block out the sun coming in through the windows, and the tugged-up fabric reveals the cut of his hips and the dusting of dark hair from his navel to the waistband of his jeans. Two tattoos are inked into his skin there that I hadn’t noticed the night of the rainstorm. Intricate, feathered wings, lining the defining muscle of his hips.