Chapter 84: Morning After
Chapter 11: Morning After
James’s POV
Someone was playing drums inside my skull. That was the only explanation for the rhythmic pounding that echoed through my head. I tried to open my eyes, but the morning sun attacked like laser beams, forcing them shut again. I lifted a hand to rub them, half-expecting to find melted goo on my face. My mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died - a nauseating combination of stale alcohol, cigarette smoke I didn’t remember inhaling, and what might have been cheap bar nuts.
The pounding intensified, a dual assault from both inside and outside my head. I cracked one eye open, then the other, realizing it was just the sun doing its best to blind me - and winning. My head felt twice its size and ten times its weight. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of pain radiating through my temples, pulsing in time with some cruel internal metronome. The light filtering through unfamiliar curtains seemed deliberately malicious, finding every angle to stab at my retinas.
I looked down at my bare chest, then around the unfamiliar room. Where the hell was I? The walls were painted a soft cream color, decorated with simple framed photographs I didn’t recognize - landscapes mostly, some beach scenes, a few candid shots of people laughing. The furniture was mismatched but clean, giving the space a lived-in comfort that made my disorientation worse. The last thing I remembered was drinking at some underground bar, the bitter taste of whiskey burning my throat with each shot. A female voice... Trixy. That was her name. She’d kept pouring, and I’d kept drinking, desperate to drown out thoughts I couldn’t face. Thoughts of Trishelle, of my failures, of everything I’d managed to destroy.
My hand flew to my mouth. Did I do what I thought I did? Bile rose in my throat at the thought of betraying Trishelle, even drunk. The guilt crashed over me like a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face in them, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Damn, damn, damn. What was I going to do? How could I have been so stupid, so reckless? The room spun slightly, whether from the hangover or the panic, I couldn’t tell.
I pushed the covers aside and realized I was naked. This just kept getting worse. Heat flooded my face despite the pounding headache. Where were my clothes? Had I stripped them off myself, or had someone else removed them? The questions multiplied in my mind, each one more mortifying than the last. I growled in frustration, the sound raw and animalistic. I was swearing off all forms of booze for the rest of my life. This time I meant it. No more whiskey, no more beer, no more drowning my problems in a bottle only to wake up creating new ones.
Standing up proved more difficult than expected. My legs wobbled beneath me like a newborn calf’s, and I had to grip the nightstand to keep from falling. The room tilted dangerously for a moment before settling back into place. I wrapped the sheet around my waist - at least it was clean and smelled faintly of lavender detergent - and shuffled to the door, leaning against it for support before cracking it open. The hallway was empty, silent except for the distant sound of running water. Somewhere, a shower was running, the pipes humming through the walls. I tried calling on my wolf, but the fool was still knocked out cold. Strange - werewolves rarely got this intoxicated for long. Our metabolism usually burned through alcohol within hours, our enhanced healing clearing our systems efficiently. Whatever I’d consumed last night must have been potent enough to override even supernatural constitution.
Taking a careful step into the hallway, I looked left and saw two closed doors. Bedrooms, probably. One had a poster of some band I didn’t recognize taped to it, the other was plain white. I decided my best bet was to head right, toward what I hoped was the main exit. My heart hammered against my ribs as I moved, each step a calculated risk. What if I ran into someone? What if there were more people here than I’d anticipated?
I crept silently, my bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. The boards were old but well-maintained, only creaking once when I shifted my weight too quickly. Each step sent fresh jolts of pain through my skull, like tiny explosions behind my eyes. Peeking around the corner, I spotted a small living room with a table and three chairs near a window overlooking what appeared to be a quiet street. Morning light streamed through the glass, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. The kitchen was further back, and I could smell cooking food - bacon, eggs, something sweet like cinnamon rolls or French toast - and hear the gentle hum of a woman’s voice. She was singing softly, some tune I didn’t recognize. Her scent was vaguely familiar, triggering hazy memories from the night before. Vanilla and something citrusy, mixed with the smell of the bar.
I edged closer to the front door, my escape just moments away. Freedom was within reach. Just a few more steps and I could slip out, find my way back to familiar territory, and pretend this whole disaster never happened.
"Where do you think you’re going after last night?"
The voice behind me made me freeze. Every muscle in my body tensed, my shoulders drawing up defensively. I recognized that tone - the "you’re in big trouble if you leave me now" tone. I’d heard it before, usually from women I’d disappointed in one way or another. Normally, I’d find some clever way to talk myself out of it, flash a charming smile and slip away, but right now, I just wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole. My stomach churned with dread, adding to the nausea already plaguing me.
I turned slowly, pasting on my most disarming smile, praying she wasn’t holding a frying pan - or worse, a knife. I’d seen enough angry women to know what they were capable of when scorned. My sister had once thrown a entire set of dishes at an ex-boyfriend. I looked at the woman, rubbing my aching eyes for a second look, trying to focus through the lingering fog in my brain. The light made everything slightly blurry, edges soft and indistinct.
"Trixy?" I asked, my jaw hanging open like an idiot. There was no way I hooked up with the barmaid. She was attractive, sure, with her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and bright eyes that missed nothing, but not my type. And more importantly, I loved Trishelle. Even drunk, even stupid, even at my absolute worst, that truth remained constant.
Trixy frowned and threw the dishcloth she’d been holding over her shoulder at me. It hit my chest with a soft thwap, leaving a small damp spot on the sheet. "Eww... don’t even go there, dude. It’s not what you think." She turned back to the kitchen, shaking her head, her ponytail swishing with the movement. "I think you should at least wear your clothes. You could get arrested walking around like that, and I don’t need cops showing up at my door asking questions. Your pants are on the bathroom floor, by the way. Second door on the left."
I turned back toward the kitchen, keeping a wary eye out for any flying objects. My experience with angry women had taught me to stay alert, to watch their hands and anticipate sudden movements. I saw her grab a pan and tensed, every nerve on edge, my body preparing to dodge. I relaxed only when she placed it on the stove and retrieved bacon from the fridge, the package crinkling as she opened it. The sizzle as the strips hit the hot surface made my stomach growl despite my nausea. When had I last eaten? Yesterday afternoon? The day before?
The sound of a door opening made me tense again. The bouncer from the bar emerged, yawning widely, his massive frame filling the doorway. He was even bigger than I remembered - easily six-foot-five, with shoulders that could block out the sun and arms thick with muscle. A tattoo sleeve covered his left arm, intricate designs I couldn’t make out from this distance. He greeted me with a casual nod, as if finding half-naked strangers in his living room was a regular occurrence, and headed to the kitchen, where he kissed Trixy on the head with surprising gentleness. The contrast between his size and his tenderness was striking. She smiled up at him - he was almost a foot taller - and pointed at the coffee maker with her spatula. He winked, turned, and grabbed two cups from the cabinet, moving with the easy familiarity of someone who’d performed this routine a thousand times. He leaned back so he could see me through the doorway, his expression unreadable, dark eyes assessing.
"Hey mate, you want a cup?"
I stared at them in confusion, my brain struggling to process the scene. The domesticity of it, the casual acceptance. Didn’t this guy want to punch me in the face for sleeping with his girl? Wasn’t that how these situations usually played out? Angry boyfriend, threats, maybe actual violence?
The bouncer spat out his coffee and glared at me, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Coffee dripped from his chin onto his white t-shirt, leaving a brown stain. "Now look, mate, I don’t know how things are done in your neck of the woods, but one, I don’t sleep with my sister. That’s gross." He grabbed some napkins and cleaned up the coffee on his hands and the floor, his movements sharp with irritation. Paper towels soaked up the liquid in expanding brown circles. "Two, if you had slept with my sister, consenting or not," he glared at Trixy as she opened her mouth to protest, "you wouldn’t be alive, and you sure wouldn’t have your balls still attached. They’d be decorating my trophy wall."
Relief washed over me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckled. I grabbed the back of a nearby chair for support, my fingers digging into the wood. I just stared at them in surprise, my mind reeling. So I hadn’t slept with the barmaid. Thank God. Thank every deity that might be listening. My shoulders sagged as the tension drained from my body, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted. I made my way to the small sofa and sank into it, the worn cushions embracing me like an old friend. The fabric was soft, broken in by years of use.
I looked up to see the siblings engaged in some sort of silent battle of wills, their eyes locked in wordless communication. Trixy’s jaw was set stubbornly, while her brother’s expression remained firm but not unkind. He didn’t have siblings himself, but he’d seen enough of Marcus and his brothers to recognize what was happening. The unspoken language of family, full of meaning only they could decipher. Raised eyebrows, slight head tilts, the tiniest shift in posture - all of it meant something. I leaned my head back against the sofa, closing my eyes briefly, wishing I could make sense of my life right now. Everything felt like it was spinning out of control, like I was caught in a current I couldn’t fight.
I heard a small huff and saw Trixy turn away, her shoulders dropping slightly in defeat. Her brother had won this round, apparently. Whatever argument they’d been having had concluded without a single word spoken aloud. A moment later, a mug of hot black coffee appeared in front of me on the low coffee table, steam rising from its surface in delicate spirals. The ceramic was warm against my palms when I picked it up.
"Could someone please tell me what happened last night?" I asked, reaching for the cup and taking a cautious sip. The liquid was hot but good, with an earthy undertone I found refreshing. It tasted nothing like the cheap coffee I usually drank - this was quality, probably some expensive blend. Rich and smooth, with hints of chocolate and nuts. I took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through me and reaching my wolf, who stirred slightly in response. A faint presence in the back of my mind, groggy but beginning to wake.
"Well, firstly, tell us your name, mate."
I looked from one to the other, my confusion deepening. "You don’t know my name?" I asked in shock. Who let a nameless stranger into their home? Correction, a drunk, nameless stranger? These people were either incredibly trusting or incredibly foolish. Maybe both. Or maybe they knew something I didn’t, had some reason for their hospitality that I couldn’t fathom in my current state. The coffee mug felt solid in my hands, grounding me in this surreal moment.