CHAPTER SIX

I open my eyes and have no idea where I am, but I do know that I am not in my own house, and within moments, the events of the previous evening flood back into my mind. The potential harm I may have caused sends shivers through my body. In addition to the fact that I am still wearing my top, my lower half also appears to be whole. The question is whether I dare turn back and see my current location. And what I am doing here, or who I am with.

With trepidation, I tilt my head away from the wall, but all I can see is a cozy bed and a wall. There's a glass of orange juice next to my bed and dark navy sheets that smell like Rory when I flip over. When the thought occurs to me, "What if it's poisoned?" I sit up and drink the juice in one sitting.

He may lock me up in a farmhouse and beat the soles of my feet into submission, like in the movie "Misery." I return the remaining liquid to its place and step back onto the hardwood floor. Our room's window looks out into the barn where we're staying. Perhaps he's psychotic, but he doesn't need a spy hole in the shower to keep an eye on the ladies in the hot tub — he just stares out the window! I reach down and grab my purse from the foot of the bed, ensuring he hasn't taken my phone in a typical murderer's move. The phone is working, and thank goodness, because Kerry just sent me an SMS. Please accept my apologies; I anticipate arriving within the next twenty minutes. Is she really running late? Shit!

I rush down the lovely stairs and into Rory's kitchen, where I find him standing with papers strewn everywhere. He glances up as I stagger, feeling shaky from yesterday night's binge drinking. After seeing me in my horrible make-up from last night, with my phone and bag in hand, Rory grins graciously at me. A cheerful "Good morning," he says.

To show my agreement, I nod my head. Excuse me, but I must leave... I apologize for my tardiness and head out the door. He approaches me with a cautious step, his dark eyes taking in my entire face.

Is everything all right? he inquires.

I tell him, "not really," and he seems taken aback by my answer. How was your evening?"

To which she replies, "Nothing," shrugging. We kissed, and you passed out on my bed since we were both a little tipsy.

I asked, "Where did you sleep?"

Where?" "In my bed," he says with a grin.

The meaning of this is lost on me. "So where exactly did I pass out?"

Placed "in my bed."

That means we shared your bed, right? In that regard, let me elaborate.

He gives a casual nod of assent. But nothing actually happened—you were unconscious, and it's just as well that I'm not a necrophile.

We sigh with relief and say, "Oh good, that's reassuring." I'm about to go when he clears his throat as if he has something else to say, so I pivot around to face him again.

"Hey, I need to beg a favor of you." What we need is a favor! So, what exactly can I give him? I hope he isn't asking me to shit on him like some weirdo!

I firmly declare, "I won't shit on you." Kerry warned me about these thugs.

“What?” When questioned, he inquires.

"It was heard."

His head shakes in disapproval. I mean, why the heck would you even...."