#MICDROP: A Standalone Enemies to Lovers Romance by N.N. Britt

Author:N.N. Britt [Britt, N.N.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

28 BILLIE

I'm jolted awake by the sound of glass shattering downstairs, followed by a woman's shrill scream. I bolt upright in the unfamiliar bed, my heart pounding as I take in my surroundings. My jeans are still on, but the zipper is lowered. I locate my sneakers and my T-shirt on the floor.

What the hell happened?

The events of last night come flooding back when I see Rain’s sleeping form next to me. She’s in her panties and bra and…socks and looks both sexy and ridiculous.

Another crash from below interrupts my thoughts. Rain stirs, blinking groggily as she registers the commotion. For a moment, we just stare at each other, both half-naked and disoriented.

I remember her basement studio. Working on the song. Then…

Then we were done and she offered to “make out” some more. I made her come. With my tongue. She gave me a hand job. We passed out right around the time the sun rose.

More yelling echoes up through the floorboards, the voice distinctly female and angry. I'm unsure whether I should go investigate or stay put. But Rain is already scrambling out of bed, cursing under her breath as she hastily pulls on her shorts.

“Do you want my help?” I croak.

“No,” she mutters, heading for the door. “Just stay here and don't come down.”

Before I can respond, she disappears.

I remain frozen on the messy unmade bed as sounds of a confrontation carry upstairs—screaming, some kind of slurred accusations, broken glass crunching. I can't make out the actual words, but it's clear someone downstairs—a woman—is pissed.

Even though I don’t want to assume anything, I have some ideas who that could be.

My eyes drift around Rain's bedroom, gaining context in the morning light. Unlike the studio, this space is almost devoid of furniture. There’s a massive chest of drawers, a floor lamp in the shape of an outdoor lamppost, and clothes piled haphazardly on every surface. I spot a bat onesie and a banana onesie. Some butterfly-shaped hair pins. A fluffy pink unicorn. Who is this woman?

There’s a stack of music magazines and worn paperbacks on the floating shelf on the wall and an overflowing ashtray on the nightstand. Not cigarettes. Weed. Old.

The curtains are thick and black and hardly let any sun in, save for the small strip of light slipping through the opening.

It’s definitely not what I would’ve expected from LA's heavy metal princess. Though after last night, I'm realizing there's a lot I still don't know about the real Rain Sinclair.

More shouting grabs my attention. I recognize Rain's raspy tone mixing with the mystery woman's angry cries. Things clearly aren't calming down. Part of me wants to intervene, make sure Rain is okay. Instead, I stay put. It’s not my business. Plus, something tells me that would only piss Rain off.

After several tense minutes, I finally hear footsteps pounding back up the stairs. Rain appears in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing, face contorted with anger.

“You okay?” I ask, sliding from the bed and rising to my feet.

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