If I could up and leave here, I swear to God I would right about now.
There are voices in the hallway, and I’m suddenly wide awake and stone-cold sober. They’re deep voices. Manly voices. Deep, manly voices.
God, yes, I am still super high. I wish being high was more fun than this, but right now all I'm trying to do is remember how I open my mouth and speak if I need to. I try to remember how to walk. And how I do things like… open the door.
But my head feels like it's about three times its normal size and attached to the rest of my body with fishing line, like a strong gust of wind will make it wobble. Let’s just say it’s a strange feeling. It’s fading, though. It’s been hours since I took the meds.
I wouldn’t mind being so high if it took the pain away, but it seems whatever the doctor gave me only made me lose control of my senses, not really doing anything else.
The voices come closer and stop right outside the door. I try hard to listen but can’t make out anything.
And then it dawns on me with vivid clarity. This is perfect, perfect.
This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
I’ve wanted a firsthand look at the Cowen Clan, to see how they really function, to see how they really are. You know, get a right good taste of bona fide mafia life. I need details. All of them, and now’s my chance.
Okay, who am I kidding? I really just want to see one of those men split wood bare-chested.
Oh, God. Oh my God! I suddenly remember more details about the way I mocked him, and I absolutely mentioned things like mafia in my drunken hallucinations. Up until then, I had never once mentioned that I actually knew they were part of the mob. I sort of assumed that I was one of the few trusted outside of their Clan. But we had a sort of understanding, until last night, that I didn't actually mention mob out loud. Oh God.
I need to leave. I need to get out of here, go home, and never show my face here again.
What will they do to me if they know who I am? What have I done?
They don’t know. There’s no way they do.
How can I look him in the face, after that mockery of his Clan that I made?
And why am I more concerned about Tate than my own mates, Paisley and Islan? My thoughts are a scrambled mess.
I toss off the covers and try to get to my feet, but the ground looms up weirdly in front of me, like I’m standing in the center of a waterbed or something. I grab for something to steady myself.
Damn it. I must’ve gotten a concussion. Damn tree.
Suddenly, my heart slams against my rib cage. There they are again, voices right outside the door. Someone’s opening the door. There's a sound of the door handle turning, and then the door opens. I hold my breath.
“What the hell are you doing standing up?”
I blink. Tate. I’d know that gruff, stern voice anywhere. I’ve imagined that gruff, stern voice before, only he was saying things like, “Come here and sit on my lap, bonnie lass.”
Flush.
Please God, I did not just say that out loud in my state of highness.
“I asked you a question, lassie.” He stands, shadowed in the doorway, hands anchored on his hips. I can’t see his features because of the way the light falls, but I can tell it’s him by the wide breadth of his shoulders, the way he fills the whole doorwaylike an angry, vengeful god, his dark brown hair falling across his forehead.
Why is it so much hotter in my fantasies when he calls me that?
“Oh, just stretching my legs,” I say nonchalantly, but I'm trying so hard to be normal it feels forced. To prove my point, I sort of extend my legs and my toes. Stretch one leg, and then switch to the other side. He tips his head to the side curiously. I don't blame him. I probably look like a deranged ballerina.
He’s not amused.
“Get back in bed.”
“Maybe I need to use the toilet.”
“Maybe, or you do?” Again the glare, ice blue eyes beneath dark brown brows that snap together with utter disdain. The look sends a frisson of awareness straight between my thighs. I’m so shocked by the sudden turned-on state of affairs that I utter a little, “Ohh.”
