“Why are you here, Officer Jackass?” I ask, without turning to look at him.
“You know, I'm starting to worry about your memory, Scar,” he murmurs as he flags down the bartender. “You seemsoforgetful these days.”
I scoff, prepared to rain down hell on his obnoxious ass, but in typical Ellis fashion, he doesn't let me get a word in edgewise.
“I mean, we've been over this... I'm not a cop anymore.” He speaks the words slowly, like I’m a toddler, and I swear to god, it makes me want to smack the stupid, smarmy smile off of his stupid, smarmy face.
“Yes, I know,” I reply through gritted teeth as I ball my hand into a tight fist to keep from acting on my urge to smack him. “And we’ve been over this before, too… you’re just a jackass now. So, maybe you’re the one with memory problems, you dick.”
From the moment we met, here in this very bar, Ellis and I have butted heads.
Well… that’s not exactly true.
When he swooped in and rescued me from the break-up-from-hell, he was a perfect gentleman. Charming even, whereas I was a crying, drunken mess.
For a minute, I thought there was palpable chemistry between the two of us. Laughable now, clearly.
But, hell, he wassosweet. He all but made me come home with them to sleep it off, which sounds creepy, but was actuallyso sweet.He loaded me up with Advil, water, and Gatorade before parking himself in the recliner—to watch over me, he said, in case I got sick.
He even went as far as settling the tab the dillhole I was seeing stuck me with—and it was not cheap. The loser apparently pre-gamed with his work bros and bought them all a few rounds of drinks before dumping me. In front of them all, I might add.
It truly felt like a white knight rescuing a damsel kind of situation, at least until the sun came up.
With the dawn came one helluva hangover and a very unwelcome dose of reality that I wish I could bleach from my brain. Unfortunately, I remember it like it was yesterday…
“Where in the hell am I?” I mutter, blinking myself awake as I take in the unfamiliar space.
It’s sparsely decorated and clean enough, but there’s nothing that gives away where I am or how I got here.
I quickly take stock of my body—I’m fully dressed, down to my shoes, which is fucking weird, and other than a splitting headache and a crick in my neck, I feel fine.
“Oh, good, Sleeping Beauty is finally up,” a gravelly, masculine voice says from somewhere behind me.
I jerk around so hard, I fall off the couch and smack my head on the coffee table.
“Shit, are you okay?”
“Where am I?” I ask, rubbing the back of my head as I push myself up into a seated position, resting my back against the table. “And who are you?”
“You don’t remember?” he asks, a small grin curling his lips.
I massage my pounding temples and groan as bits and pieces of last night flash behind my tired lids.
Eric asking me out to The Creek and then dumping me in front of his work buddies… and sticking me with their bill. Stumbling drunk outside. Hot and hotter swooping in to save me.
“Just kill me.”
“No can do,” he murmurs, his voice full of humor. “My roommate’s a cop, and I’m pretty sure even he couldn’t get me off a murder charge.”
A giggle slips out, and I slap a hand over my mouth.
“I’m Atlas.” Which makes last night’s rescuer his hot cop roommate. I wonder where he is… I’d really like to thank him for, well, everything. And maybe ask for his number.
“Scarlet.” I push up onto my knees and leverage myself against the couch to stand. “And I’m not usually such a mess.”
“Messes don’t scare me.” He turns toward the cabinet and grabs two mugs. “Coffee?”
“God, yes please.” I pad into the kitchen. “With lots of cream, please. And cinnamon, if you have it.”
