Surviving in Clua (White Sands Series Book 2) by Elle Wylee

Author:Elle Wylee [Wylee, Elle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-20T16:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

Kenzi

One eye cracked open, I attempt to peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Water. I need water. My other eye opens a slither and my sluggish brain thumps against the sides of my skull like it’s grown two sizes in the night. Painkillers, I need them too. Ugh, what the hell is stuck to my cheek? I swipe lazily at my face. My cell? What the…? Nooooo.

My brain thuds again, stalling over the goings-on of last night. Morning after fear grips on tightly in the back of my throat.

No. Oh, God no.

Mylo.

Shit. Mylo.

My stomach rolls. I squeeze my eyes tighter. I drunk dialed.

“No,” I groan. Bits and pieces of the conversation play out amongst the sludge that is now my brain. I called him names. Heat rises up my cheeks and my heart flips, but not in a good way—in an about-to-have-a-panic-attack kind of way. I think we… holy shit we had phone sex. Grabbing a pillow, I drag it over my face. Really good phone sex. Shitshitshitshitshit.

How the hell do I face him now?

We need to talk about this…

Noooo. No, no, no. I grimace hard. Think about crying. Drag my sheet over my head and seriously consider living out the rest of my days under here. But any hope of falling back into a nice, safe oblivious sleep is obliterated by the hellish, awful buzz of my door.

Why? Visitors are not welcome. Curling into the fetal position, I shove my face into my pillow. But the buzz just keeps on coming in a long brain-paining whine. “Leave me alone.” My yell is pathetic, muffled by my pillow.

Another long buzz.

Fuck my life. I throw my sheets off and drag myself out of bed. Fuck. My. Life.

My legs wobble as I attempt to step into my pajama shorts—because of course—I’m naked. I verbally molested Mylo. Naked. And drunk. And naked? My eyes pop open even wider and I scramble to find my cell amongst the mess of my sheets. Please, God let it have only been verbal. I hold my cell in both hands and swipe open the screen. Click straight to Mylo’s contact and check for discriminating photo messages. Or evidence that we video called. None. I puff out my cheeks, throw the offending cell back onto the bed and press the palms of my hands into my eyes. Okay, bad. But it could be worse.

When the buzzing starts up again, I grab the Beach Hut Tee that’s hanging over the back of my dresser chair. It’s about fifty sizes too big. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t nearly big enough to hold my shame. I shuffle through my apartment to the front door, my fingers pressed against my temples. Useless. There’ll be no reigning in this pain.

“Kenzi’s dead,” I croak down the intercom. “Please call again later.”

“Kenzi darling, you sound worse than Pete did this morning.”

I groan and press my cheek against the cool wall by the door, one eye closed, mouth hanging open like some sort of zombie guppy.

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