Bodies (Animal Instincts Book 1)

2: Quartet

No alarms. No phones. There was nothing to wake Ashley up that Saturday morning but the sun perversely peering in at her through the window.

"Ugh," she complained thickly, rolling on her back to turn away from it. "Mom ... no. Go away."

That was what her mom did when she thought Ashley was oversleeping. She'd sneak in and pull open those blinds, then creep away again, probably cackling to herself like The Wicked Witch of The West. "Shut it," she groaned through her sleep. "Mom, please ... you evil ... hate you ... "

It was a good amount of time before Ashley finally became conscious enough to remember that her mom was out of town, and it was her own fault for forgetting to shut those blinds last night. She did her usual morning fight-against-gravity as she sat up stiffly, like a vampire rising grumpily from his coffin. Unpeeling her long, dark hair from her face, she wondered why she couldn't remember turning in last night. In fact ... she couldn't remember a thing beyond the party, which was weird because she'd barely had anything to drink. She felt awful though, tired and disoriented, like her head was fighting to play catch-up.

What day is it?

"Saturday," she murmured to herself, pumping her fists like she'd just won a contest. Thank God.

OK, but if that were the case, why could she hear the TV blaring downstairs? Had she left it on by accident? "You're one hot mess, Ashley Templeton," she yawned to herself.

She got up, trudging across the room and pulling open her bedroom door. As she descended, she made out the voice and distinct accent of that vet guy with his own show, The Incredible Dr. Pol. What the hell kind of channel was she watching last night?

She was halfway down the staircase when she stopped in her tracks, eyes wide at what she was seeing in the living room. Three grown men lounging on the couch, eyes on the screen, and another man walking towards them carrying a plate stacked with ... french toast?? That was her mom's favorite thing to make for breakfast.

"Smells good, Ryan!" one of the boys on the couch remarked as a rich, buttery smell wafted up to her nose, canceling out the possibility of this being a dream.

The man with the french toast - Ryan? - set the plate down on the coffee table, smiling appreciatively. "It was nothing. Now, remember this is to share. That means you, Quinn."

"That's not fair," the boy on the right side of the couch whined. He was the tallest, built like a tree, with big, broad shoulders and a muscled neck that reminded her of the football players at school.

"How is it unfair?"

"I'm the biggest one here."

"We know how out-of-control you get when it comes to food."

"Come on. You're exaggerating. I love to eat, that's all."

"And sneak our portions away when you think we're not looking. We know you all too well, Quinn, so don't try anything."

"Ugh. Fine."

Ryan folded his arms and started to say something else, then stopped as he spotted Ashley out of the corner of his eye. Right away, she clammed up, thinking how vulnerable she was, standing there in only a nightdress, with nothing she could use to protect herself. Her house had been broken into by four men who were arguing over french toast and now ... well, now, she had no idea what was going to happen, but it sure as shit couldn't be good.

To her surprise, Ryan dropped his arms and came forward with an easy, charming smile. He was slight, around her height at five six, with ebony skin and enviously silky, straight black hair. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"