“Show’s over, sweetheart. I’m taking you home to sleep off that alcohol you’re pickled in.”
“I can walk,” she grumbled, gripping the back of my cut.
“That’s debatable,” I countered.
“But I’m—I’m too heavy! You can’t lift me!”
I snorted. “What does it look like I’m doing right now?”
Keely grunted then groaned.
“My head hurts. Everything is so…spinny.”
“That would be those mai tais kicking your ass. It’s gonna be worse in the morning.”
Carrying Keely to the parking lot, I set her on the back seat of my bike and buckled my spare helmet on her. She stifled a yawn and her eyes began to drift closed. It looked like she would be passing out in T-minus two minutes. I had to get her home quick.
Climbing onto my bike, I reached back and took Keely’s arms, guiding them around my middle.
“Hold on tight,” I said. “Falling off is not fun, believe me.”
Keely snuggled against my back with a contented noise.
“You’re so warm. And strong. And big.”
“Focus, sweetheart. Where am I taking you? Point me in the direction of home.”
Keely said nothing, resting her cheek between my shoulder blades with a sigh.
Damn it. She wasn’t lucid enough to get a coherent response out of her. The only choice was to take her back to Teddy’s place where she could sleep it off.
Fuck, if Teddy found out I brought a girl home, he would be utterly insufferable. I’d never hear the end of it.
Chapter four
Keely
I woke to a blistering hangover—head pounding, stomach roiling with nausea. My skin felt too tight from my smudged makeup. And the sheets…
I frowned, gliding my hand over the fabric. Stormy dark blue cotton.
My sheets were supposed to be a decadent, burgundy satin. I got them after my wedding was cancelled, a small treat to look forward to after everything blew up in my face. I spent far too much of my paycheck on them, and sometimes I still scolded myself for being so frivolous on an extravagance like that.
But when my body ached after a long shift at the diner, wrapping myself in those sheets was heavenly bliss.
These sheets…were definitely not mine.
Cracking my eyes open, I surveyed my surroundings. The bed was just a mattress on the floor. Towers of boxes were stacked in one corner. No pictures or decor adorned the room at all.
Then my gaze landed on the leather jacket, draped over a nearby chair. Black leather, worn and cracked. With a familiar Prospect patch stitched onto the front.
“Oh, God,” I whispered, clutching my aching head.
Was this Tarzan’s room? Was this his bed?Did we sleep together?
For three days, I waited on Tarzan to call.
And there was nothing but silence. Terrible, awful, damning silence.
