And then I let myself drift off.
In Harper’s bed.
It may be a stupid thing to do, I think, but it’s too late because the world goes dark.
ChapterEight
Harper
I’m not sure what time it is, what day it is, or even where I am.
There’s a growling in my stomach and a pounding in my head. The room is pitch black, but I feel like it was just as dark the last time I woke up, so I can’t decipher how much time has passed.
Damn, I don’t remember ever feeling this rough. I crack open one eye, and the room spins a little. It’s only then that I realise the curtain has been wedged against the window, creating a complete blackout effect. Are those … my shoes?
When did I do that? How? Am I experiencing memory loss? Is this normal after food poisoning?
I try to roll over, but end up smacking straight into another warm body.
Bloody hell!
What’s going on? Am I dreaming? I’d never let a hook-up stay over. I hate this. I hate that I can’t gather my thoughts, and when I move again my back aches like hell.
There are soft snores coming from my bed partner and when I try to get up out of bed my foot hits a cold, wet cloth. What happened in here?
Pausing for a moment, while the room stops spinning, I try to think.
I went for dinner. Johannes and I and a couple of the guys from the pit. Cole and Ash maybe? One of the younger assistants. We’d left after dinner, keeping my promise to Kian that we wouldn’t go out drinking so I’d be up in time for the 9am workout. We had Mexican, I think. The vivid colours of a place that looks like a dive bar come to mind.
Whilst I hadn’t drank, Johannes had. He’d carried on to a bar alone, having already had several margaritas at the Mexican place and downing a couple shots at the bar when I was trying to get us out of there. I remember being worried. He seemed out of sorts; I’m not sure if I asked him about it, though, so I file that mental note away until I can make sense of my current peculiar situation.
My stomach gurgles and the rawness of my throat plus the bad taste in my mouth begin to make sense. I was sick.
Here.
I remember the coolness of the marble bathroom tiles beneath me as I vomited. Still, that doesn’t explain my snoring bed friend.
The half-naked guy chooses this moment to roll over, still fast asleep and … well, well, well. I definitely don’t feel great, but it’s hard to feel like shit when you’ve got Kian Walker in your bed.
It all starts to become clear. I came back here and felt so unwell that I couldn’t move off the bathroom floor. My body felt heavy and every time I tried to get up my stomach began to cramp, and I was sick again.
Oh, God … and then I’d called Kian. Of all people! Why him? I grab my phone and shockingly it looks like I texted Johannes, too. Apparently I called him a couple of times but got no answer. That’s strange, especially as we’re staying in the same hotel, but he was well on the way to being drunk when we left the restaurant. He probably just passed out and missed the calls.
So, Kian had come to take care of me, huh? Closing my eyes, I can almost feel his big hand on my back as he guided from the bathroom to the bed. I definitely remember the cool washcloth on my forehead and the feeling of being looked after.
I should be embarrassed that he saw me in such an awful state and later I probably will be, but right now I feel … grateful. There haven’t been many moments in life that I’ve felt that way. Johannes got me through the hangovers and the odd case of flu when I was starting out and travelling internationally for the first time, but he has an easy, casual nonchalance about him whereas this…? This felt nice. But also weird that it was Kian. I try and fail to reconcile the uptight prick I’ve come to know with the kind, caring man who put me to bed with unexpected gentleness. Needless to say, I’m finding this scenario very confusing right now.
I imagine telling fourteen-year-old Harper that one day he’ll be half-naked and sharing a bed with his crush. I watched Kian’s first season, glued to the TV, as this guy started to take the world by storm, brushing off every comment about his father in all the interviews I watched. I couldn’t ever understand why because Tyler Heath was a legend, but it gave me goosebumps.
I was just this angry teen in his millionth foster placement, trying to convince his new parents to spend some of the money they got paid each week to look after him on karting lessons. Then there was this new driver, refusing to be defined by who his parents were. He didn’t want to be a global sensation just because his mum was once a massive pop star and his dad a champion driver. He wanted to succeed on his own merit, or not at all – and it was so exciting to watch him race.
I could appreciate that, even as a teen.
I turn to look at him and the room starts to spin again. It’s hard to make out much in the blackout conditions he’s created in the room, but I’m not going to miss this opportunity to really look at him. The headache doesn’t improve, so I slide back under the cool sheets and allow myself to have this.
The Melbourne sun may have bronzed his face and shoulders, but his chest and stomach are pale, coated in thick wafts of brown hair. I manscape because I know I get papped shirtless – okay, let’s face it, I like to show off – but Kian clearly doesn’t bother. I want to reach out and stroke it. I want to thread my fingers through and see if it’s as soft as it looks.
Men like this have never been my type. I usually go for the prototypical twink – lanky and scrawny, someone who wants to be dominated; guys with soft features and a praise kink. Kian doesn’t fit into any of those categories. He has sharp features and he only has to go a couple of days without shaving to pull off some impressive facial hair. And I can’t for one second imagine him enjoying me telling him what to do. If anything, it would probably be the other way around.
