Am I having a wet dream?

Gracia

I stared down at the glass of whiskey in my hand, watching the amber liquid catch the bar lights.

“So, yeah,” I muttered, the words slurring slightly. “That’s the story of my fucking life.”

I gave a bitter little laugh and tipped the glass toward my lips, feeling the burn all the way down.

“I found out my fiancé was gay, days before the wedding. And not just gay, ” I snorted, shaking my head. “The bastard even hit me. Can you believe that?”

I turned to the bartender, who was wiping a glass but had frozen mid-motion, his eyes wide.

"I was the one who was supposed to be doing the hitting! How could I have let that bastard lay his hands on me? I should’ve hit them so hard in the face instead of just standing there and crying like a fool."

The bartender set the glass down and shook his head, looking genuinely rattled. “Woah. When I said I wanted to hear your life story, I didn’t think it’d be that bad. Jesus.” He whistled low. “I can’t even imagine how terrible you must be feeling right now.”

I dropped my glass onto the bar with a clink, blinking hard as my head spun. The alcohol burned in my throat, and everything felt a little too much.

I didn’t even remember how I got here. One second, I was storming out of that godforsaken house, and the next, I was parking outside some random hotel. Instead of booking a room like a normal person, I went straight to the bar and ordered the biggest bottle of whiskey they had.

Now, most of it was gone. I frowned, picking at the peeling label on the bottle like it had wronged me personally.

God, this is so cliché, I thought miserably. I was cheated on, drinking myself to death, and spilling my sob story to a total stranger.

I used to roll my eyes when I saw women doing this in books and movies. I used to think, Wow, how unoriginal. The author should find a better coping mechanism. But now, I understood how they felt.

When you felt so shitty, so useless, so fundamentally worthless, sometimes the only thing that numbed it was drinking yourself stupid.

I pushed the glass toward the bartender.

"Imagine this," I said, my voice bitter. "Finding out your fiancé is cheating? Sure, that's bad enough. But finding out he was never attracted to women to begin with? That he loved someone else and was just using you to hide the fact that he's gay? And not only that, he had the audacity to hit you while protecting his lover."

The bartender swallowed hard, setting his towel down. His face was pale.

“Yeah…if that were me, I’d probably just kill myself.” He held up his hands quickly. “Don’t kill yourself, though! I mean, seriously, don’t.”

He grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured another full glass for me, setting it down like he was offering a truce. “This one’s on the house. Don’t worry, hon, you’ll find someone way better. Someone better than that trash.”

Someone better? I stared at the golden liquid swirling in the glass. Who was better than Charles? I’m twenty-three. Most men my age were just as bad, annoying, childish, and unable to give me the things I wanted. Maybe I should just go for older men at this point in my life. At least they would know how to satisfy a woman and treat her right.

I picked it up and tossed it back in one long gulp. I set the empty glass down harder than I meant to and dropped my head into my hands, squeezing my eyes shut. I hated this. I hated this feeling so fucking much.

My phone started ringing, vibrating against the bar counter. I blinked down at it, my vision swimming slightly from the whiskey.

I stared at the caller ID for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was my mother. I didn’t want to answer. God, I didn’t. Because I already knew how this would go. I could explain everything, I could scream, cry, beg, and it wouldn’t matter. It never had with my family. But some small, pathetic part of me still hoped. I wanted to believe that maybe, this time would be different. That maybe she would actually listen. Maybe she would defend me, or at least pity me, right?

I answered the call. “Mom…”

I didn’t even finish the word before her voice exploded through the speaker.

“You stupid child!” she screeched. “What is this nonsense I’m hearing from Charles’s family?! You broke the engagement? Are you insane? Do you know the wedding is in a few days?!”

I bit my lip, an old, nervous habit I thought I’d outgrown but clearly hadn’t.

“Mom, I… Charles, he—”

“Shut the fuck up if you can’t talk properly!” she barked. I flinched, holding the phone slightly away from my ear.

“I want you to go back to that house this instant,” she commanded. “Get down on your knees if you have to. Beg him to take you back!”

For a moment, I was frozen. Staring down at the bar, at my empty glass.

“Mom…” I said, my voice shaking. “How can I take him back? Charles… he cheated. I caught him—with someone else on our bed.”

There was a pause at her end and I thought she would get angry for me. Maybe she would finally stand by me, but then she laughed mockingly.

“And so what?” she scoffed. “Is he the only man who cheats? Anybody can cheat. He’s a man. It’s normal for men to cheat.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the world tilt around me again. “I—”

“Your father cheated on me all the time,” she said, like she was talking about the weather. “You don’t hear me complaining. He gives me everything I want. That’s what matters. So use that thick head of yours, Gracia.”

“You’re just our adopted daughter. We can’t take care of you forever. Charles can, he cares about you. He’ll give you the life we never wanted to waste on you. Don’t be stupid, and fix this before tomorrow. If your father finds out, you know what he’s capable of doing to you.”

Right before she hung up, I heard her mutter under her breath, “That useless child. So ungrateful for everything. She should be happy a man like him wants to marry her instead of complaining.”

The call ended. I sat there, holding the phone in my hand, feeling like someone had carved out my insides with a knife.

The bartender leaned across the counter, looking at me with pity. "Are you okay, miss?"

Was I okay? Was I? Why doesn't anyone love me? Why do people keep hurting me?

I wasn't a complicated person. I didn’t need expensive things or grand gestures to feel special. I just wanted someone, just one person to care about me. To choose me, and love me honestly. Why was that so hard? Why did it feel like I was asking for the world?

My fingers tightened around the glass before I forced myself to let go. I pushed myself up on unsteady legs, feeling the room sway slightly around me.

The bartender reached out like he might try to steady me, but I shook my head.

I dug into my bag, pulled out a large bill, and dropped it onto the counter. "Keep the change," I muttered.

Without waiting for his reply, I turned and walked toward the lobby. The bright lights hurt my eyes. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I approached the front desk.

"Hi, is there a room available? Something not too expensive, please."

The receptionist smiled brightly, his fingers moving quickly over his keyboard. "Good evening, miss. Just a moment, I’ll find an available room for you."

As I waited, someone stepped up beside me.

"Excuse me," the man said to the receptionist, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. "I need a spare key for Mr. Reed, please. I’m his secretary."

I barely glanced at him as his phone rang, and he answered it immediately.

"Oh, yeah," he said into the phone, "I’m at the reception now. Grabbing the spare key for Mr. Reed. Gotta make sure his stuff's ready tomorrow morning."

I tuned him out. The receptionist placed two room keys onto the counter. One had the number six. The other had nine.

The man grabbed the one marked nine without looking at it, he was still talking into his phone as he strode away.

I took the key labeled six, thanked the receptionist in a mumble, and made my way toward the elevator.

I leaned against the elevator. I had to focus on not falling face-first onto the floors. When I finally reached the first floor, I stumbled toward the right door.

Room 6.

I fumbled with the key, then finally pushed the door open. The room was huge and far more luxurious and way too nice for what I had paid.

I frowned. I hadn’t booked a premium room. Maybe the receptionist made a mistake? I shrugged. Their problem, not mine. I was too tired to deal with it tonight. They could fix it tomorrow.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me, and instantly heard the sound of running water.

The shower’s on? Maybe someone forgot to turn it off.

Like I said I was too drunk to care, I kicked off my shoes, tugged my dress over my head, and tossed it somewhere across the room.

I stood there for a moment in the lacy black lingerie I had stupidly bought to seduce Charles tonight. I pushed the sad feeling down. Whatever. I just needed sleep.

I stumbled over to the massive bed and flopped onto it. The sheets were so soft. I closed my eyes instantly, falling asleep, but something wet hit my face after a while.

I frowned, "What the hell… Is it raining inside?"

I forced my heavy eyelids open and came face-to-face with the prettiest hazel eyes I had ever seen.

A man loomed over me, dripping water onto the bed. His black hair was wet. His eyebrow was arched in confusion and frustration. His chest, lean and sculpted, glistened under the soft light. A towel hung dangerously low on his hips.

I blinked at the sight of a hot stranger in my hotel room.

"Am I...having a wet dream?"