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“You’re only going to hurt yourself.” Ryker tilts his chin toward the cuffs as he approaches the bed to glare down on me. Like he cares if I’m hurt.
“I need the bathroom.”
He chuckles, but it’s not the sweet chuckle I was becoming addicted to. No, this sound is pure evil and full of the threat of danger. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
My stomach rolls. “Seriously. I need the bathroom.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “The next thing you’re going to say is it’s that time of the month. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“What did you—” My question about what he gave me gets cut off when I lose the fight with my stomach. I lean my head over the side of the bed as far as possible and empty my stomach contents on the floor.
“Fuck.” Ryker jumps back. He doesn’t try to hide his look of disgust.
My throat is raw and there are now chunks of vomit in my hair. I gag as my hair sways into my face and the smell hits me. No contest. This moment is going in the top ten of my least favorite moments in my life.
The asshole steps over the puddle of vomit to unlock my handcuffs. Before I can cheer, he hauls me to my feet and drags me into the bathroom where he re-attaches one cuff to my left wrist and the other cuff to the towel rack.
“Clean yourself up.” He dumps a plastic bag on the counter.
“Sure. Should be easy to do with one hand.”
“Keep your mouth shut or you’ll regret it,” he says and slams the door shut.
Regret it? I was done hearing about how I was going to regret everything before I invented the new Phoebe. And now? Now, the new Phoebe is not going to regret a damn thing. Screw him. I’ll figure out how to get myself out of this mess. I just need a plan.
In the meantime, there are chunks of vomit in my hair to deal with. I can’t wait to try and wash my hair one-handed while handcuffed to a towel rack. Another experience to add to the least favorite moments in my life. I’m racking them up today. I open the plastic bag and discover a bar of soap, a can of deodorant, a hairbrush, and some hair bands. No shampoo. Of course not.
I hear the door to the motel room open. I abandon the bag and move as close as I can to the door. My shoulder aches as it’s stretched to the absolute limit so I can lean my head against the door to eavesdrop.
“Thanks for coming. My wife got sick. She drank too much at our wedding and got alcohol poisoning.”
I roll my eyes. As if anyone would spend their wedding night in this dump.
Someone – I assume the maid – giggles. “I’ll get you cleaned up right away.” I can hear how breathy her voice is. I snort. The man may look fine, but his heart is black and rotten. Total asshole territory.
I consider shouting, but what’s the use? The maid already thinks I’m a drunk newlywed. Besides, she’d likely take Ryker’s side anyway. I have an absolute ton of experience with women taking the side of a man, particularly my husband. That particular man is a total snake, but no one ever saw it.
I return to the sink and my hair problem. Shampoo or not, I have no choice. I switch the taps on and stick my hair under the water without bothering to wait for it to warm. I manage the best I can with one hand and no shampoo. When I’m finished, I brush out my hair and throw it into a messy bun. I’d worry about how tangled my hair will be in the morning, but I’ve got enough worries on my head.
I hear the maid leave the room. I hope she managed to get rid of the smell because I don’t fancy sleeping in a room smelling of vomit.
Ryker opens the door and unlocks the cuff on the rack. He drags me to the bed and loops the cuff through the headboard and attaches it to my wrist once again. My stomach growls and his jaw tightens.
“I’ll get you something to eat if you promise to shut the hell up.”
Gee. Someone has forgotten his manners.
“I’ll be quiet,” I declare.
I’m starving and trying to think of an escape plan while I’m hungry won’t work. Having a growly, empty stomach does not help with concentration. Another wonderful lesson I’ve learned over the past year, which I never considered in my previous life. Oh sure, I donated to charities that supplied food to the hungry, but I never once considered what it would be like to actually be hungry.
Ryker returns in less than five minutes with another plastic bag. He throws the bag at me and I tip the contents onto the bedspread. Looks like it’s potato chips and soda for dinner. Oh, how my mother would cringe.
Shit. Mother. I’m going to have to see her again. And Father. Damn. My eyes burn, but I shut them before any tears can leak out. I am not going to show any weakness in front of Ryker the Asshole.
“How am I going to eat?”
I rattle the cuffs in case he doesn’t get my drift.
