After binge-drinking with Kane and Donovan last night, I’m beyond dehydrated. Nothing seems to quench my thirst. My lips are so cracked, they’re starting to hurt, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. It feels like it’s been hours since I had anything to drink. This hangover-withdrawal combination is seriously kicking my ass, and I have practice in a few hours. I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall flat on my face on the ice.
I reach for the water bottle on the table next to me and unscrew the top. As I hold it to my lips, one drop hits my tongue. It’s empty.
Figures!
I crush the plastic in my hand and slide off the bed to get a new one from the fridge. The door creaks loudly when I open it, and with Charlotte sleeping in the room across from me, I don’t want her to wake up and think I’m bailing on our agreement.
I practically walk on my tiptoes, doing my best not to make a sound, except I don’t know my way around the apartment. It’s dark, the only light coming from the moonlight that casts its shadow across the living room and illuminates a path to the kitchen. Stumbling into a table, I almost knock a basketball off its stand, lucky enough to catch it before it rolls onto the floor.
I remove my cell phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight to get a better look at my surroundings. The ball is autographed by the entire Los Angeles Lakers team, filled with signatures and short comments addressing her as Coach. She has everything from signed golf balls to footballs and hockey pucks, pictures with her clients after winning the Super Bowl and PGA Tour. There’s even a photo of her with Tyler Kane at what appears to be a charity event hosted by the Flyers. It’s impressive, what she’s accomplished at such a young age. Mickey really taught her well.
After I set the ball back on its stand, I head into the kitchen and grab a bottle of lemon-flavored VitaminWater from the refrigerator. I’m about to crack it open when I hear someone scream. I walk over to the door and lean my ear against the wood.
Nothing.
Then, I hear it again. This time, it’s clearer and coming from the back of the apartment.
The screams intensify the closer I walk toward my bedroom. It’s coming from Charlotte’s room.
I place my hand on her doorknob, afraid that I might be interrupting something until I hear her yell, “No! No! Stop it!” Her voice sounds sad, as if she’s pleading with someone.
I don’t hesitat
e, and I barge into her bedroom. She has the curtains pulled tight, not even an ounce of light coming from the windows that run along the exterior wall. All I can see are shapes, one of which looks about as long as a bed. Nothing is moving, and there’s clearly no one in here with her. For a few seconds, it’s quiet, but I can hear her breathing heavily. I’m about to leave when she starts all over again, screaming and crying.
“Daddy, no!” Her voice is a whimper.
I sit on the bed next to her and shake her in an attempt to pull her from the nightmare. It’s not enough to wake her, so I lean my back against her headboard and pull her onto my chest. She’s thrashing in my arms, as if she’s fighting someone. Pushing back a strand of her caramel hair that’s soaked in sweat, I whisper her name. I repeat myself several times until she stops moving.
My face is so close to hers that I can see the surprise register when she opens her eyes. Confused, she blinks a few times and pulls away from me.
“What…” She sits up and scoots onto the other side of the bed. “What are you doing in my room, Alex?”
I lean my elbow onto a stack of pillows and prop myself up, so we’re facing each other. “You were having a nightmare. I thought something was wrong when I heard you screaming.”
She glances down at the comforter that’s clenched between her fingers. “Oh, I see.” A moment passes between us before she tosses off the cover and says, “I haven’t had one of those in years.”
Charlotte reaches for the lamp next to the bed and turns it on. The tiny black shorts she’s wearing are riding up her perfect ass, showing off her toned long legs. She has one of the best bodies I’ve ever seen, fit and lean. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in better shape than me. My mind drifts to a very dirty place, and the thought of being in bed with Charlotte again excites me.
Before I can get a better look, she rolls onto her butt and then onto her left side.
Peeling a white tank top from her chest, she mutters, “I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”
Without thinking, I take her face in my hand and stroke my callous thumb along her cheek. A flicker of a smile tugs at her mouth.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. You were telling your dad no and shouting. I was worried about you. I thought someone was in here, hurting you.”
Charlotte leans against my hand, her lips grazing my skin. It’s not sensual though. A single tear rolls down her face and onto my thumb. I wipe it away, but they keep coming, one after another, until she’s bawling her eyes out.
What made her this upset?
Every encounter with Charlotte, she’s been tough and composed. Now, I’m seeing her…vulnerable.
A thousand things run through my mind. Did her father hurt her? Was she abused by him?
I’m not sure what to say or do other than to pull her into my arms. “Everything will be all right,” I tell her.
But will it? I have no idea what has her so unraveled.