UNEDITED
After violating campus rules and committing student misconduct, twenty-three-year-old Warren Ashford is deep trouble and at risk of losing his volleyball scholarship -- the one thing he truly values other than his bad boy reputation, and hi...
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Warren
It feels like someone is trying to dissect my skull with an icepick when I wake the next morning. But I guess that's what happens when you cut off your weekly routine of getting drunk on Friday nights – my body isn't as used to it as it should be. Goddammit.
I don't know what time Nova and I got home last night, but it must have been late because we've definitely slept in. As of right now, the sun is shining through the window behind the bed, giving the bedroom a golden glow that I absolutely hate. My eyes are too fucking sensitive.
Determined to fall asleep again, I decide that I'm going to close the curtains. Except, when I prop myself up on my elbows, I freeze.
Clothes litter the hardwood: two shirts, a worn black leather jacket, boxer – I close my eyes and groan, hoping I can erase the image. But everything is the same when I open them. Unchanged. A strapless bra and matching underwear that looks like they were torn off reside near the foot of the bed. My jean shorts and belt are carelessly thrown to the hardwood. I catch a glimpse of my wallet. Shoes sit by the door – white Keds and a pair of Nike sandals.
My stomach flips. This can't be real. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
Whether it's out of fear or curiosity, I look to my left.
Shit.
My gaze flicks upward, past the soft curve of her spine, the dip of her neck. Rich auburn curls that reach just past her shoulders. The odd-shaped birthmark just below her earlobe. I stare at that for a moment, frowning because I've never seen it before. The colouring is weird, too, almost like a – oh. Oh. It's definitely not a birthmark.
Shit.
And then I see her face. The stunning contrast of thick, black lashes against her pale skin and the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
"Shit," I mutter, briefly closing my eyes to give myself one more chance at eliminating this nightmare.
Yet again, I'm proven wrong. This is real.
And it's as if the realization makes something in my mind click. Blurred images of last night come back to me at full swing. The two of us were playing pool and drinking, snacking on...what were we eating again? I shake my head. Who gives a fuck about what we were eating? Snippets of us singing up on stage – I remember the song and how I carried her off of the stage. The words Take me home, Warren flitter in there.
Long story short: we were both so fucking shitfaced that we decided it would be a good idea to sleep together. Great. Just fucking great. Anger rushes through my blood. Anger that's only directed at myself.
Okay, that's a lie. Nova has never been one to get drunk – when I decided what I was doing last night, I figured she'd just drive me home. But no. She was worse than I was. And that pisses me off just a little. Out of the two of us, she was supposed to be the responsible one.
