Chapter 1
Aragged gasp escapes from my lips as I springboard into a half-seated position. While my hands dart up to rub the stabbing pain rocketing through my temples, I suck in large gulps of air, calming the panic scorching me from the inside out.
Goosebumps prickle my sweat-slicked skin when the coolness of air conditioning glides over my body. Pure agony. Gut-wrenching hell. I’d rather die than open my eyelids is how I feel right now.
Someone, please tell me why the National School Board would ever think holding their annual conference in Las Vegas was a good idea? I swear, I only had a couple of drinks, at the very most a few, but there's no way I drank enough to suffer the side effects of a tunnel hole digger drilling through my skull. I thought waking up the morning following my twenty-first birthday was wretched. This is ten times worse.
After giving myself a few minutes to calm the pounding of my head, I reluctantly open my drooping eyelids. My lips quirk. For a school district that can't afford to buy kindergarten students coloring pencils, the hotel they booked for me is extravagant. Monstrous vaulted ceilings, whitewood paneled walls, gorgeous dark wood furniture, and one of the largest beds I've ever seen is what confronts me.
As I slide across the pristinely crisp thousand thread count sheets, a new reality dawns on me. I'm naked. Not slightly nude. Naked-naked.Oh, lord, what did I do?I swing my eyes around the room as I struggle to gather my bearings. My heart is wildly beating, matching the thumping twinge between my legs.
The typical Vegas lifestyle reflects back at me. Casino chips line the highly varnished wooden floor; my clothing is strewn in a pattern from the door to the bed, and a pair of black polished dress shoes sits at the edge of a mattress that smells like hot, raunchy sex. Nothing out of the ordinary here.Wait, hold on a minute… Black polished dress shoes?
Scampering off the bed, I fall to my knees next to the shoes. I assess them carefully, like they are a time bomb set to detonate in 2.5 seconds. The soles are well-scuffed, but the leather on the size thirteen shoes is so thoroughly polished I can see my disheveled appearance in them. I cringe.
I don’t remember using a spatula to apply my makeup last night.
Ignoring the fact I look like I've just returned from a moonlighting job, I continue inspecting the shoes, seeking any indication of who their owner may be.
“Like grown men write their name on the soles of their shoes, Blaire,” I mumble to myself.
Failing to find any signs of ownership, I stand from my kneeling position and drift my eyes around the vast space. A silent squeal ripples from my parched mouth when a door creaking open booms through my ears.
I dive for the bed, only just making it beneath the scrumptiously thick covers when a female with a heavily wrinkled face enters my room. Grumbling in a slurred accent, she retrieves my clothing from the floor and tosses it into a woven basket balancing on her ample hip.
“Oh. . . umm. . . excuse me. I didn’t order housekeeping,” I strangle out, my voice weak with embarrassment.
I sink deeper into the mattress when the elderly lady’s scorching gaze connects with my light green eyes. Her nearly black eyes are fierce, and they have my heart pumping.
“You no want me to clean your room?”
From the depth of her accent and her poor wording, it's easy for me to derive her first language isn't English. Peeking my head out of the sheet I’m clutching for dear life, I shake my head.
“You want to live like pig?” Her words are spat out of her mouth in a malicious slur, right alongside some real-life spit. I cringe and shift my gaze to the polished floor.
Now I need housekeeping.
Muttering in a language I’m not familiar with, the silver-haired female scuffles to the door.
I hold my hand into the air like my kindergarten students do when seeking my attention. “Umm. . . excuse me.” My voice is low, hindered by the pounding of my hungover head.
The elderly lady’s cotton skirt flares out when she spins around to face me. “Yes?”
The longer she stares at me, the more my heart palpitates.
“Umm. . . I’m going to need my clothes,” I mumble through my heart in my throat while pointing to my clothing she collected off the floor. “Unless you can get the concierge to bring up my suitcase?”
The elderly lady glares at me, nostrils flaring, veins protruding. “Concierge? You wantconciergeto bring your bag to your room?”
I arch my brow and nod. “Please?”
She smiles. It's a scary and life-threatening smile. “I’ll be sure to askconciergeto bring up your bag,” she says in a thick, heavily drawled accent.
“T-thank you.”
The crazy beat of my heart weakens when she places the basket onto an antique dresser sitting by the door. After issuing me a final reprimand solely using her eyes, she exits the room. The instant the latch on the door lock clicks into place, I slip out of bed and make a mad dash for the door. Since my bare feet are unable to grip the overly polished floor, I crash into the door with an almighty thud.
The winded rattle of my brutal blow bellows all the way up my heaving chest. After brushing an unruly blonde hair off my heated cheek, I secure the lock on the door, snag my clothing out of the basket, and make a beeline for the only other door in the room.
