- Oaklyn -

Last night, I hooked up with a man, and I still don't know his name.

I woke up with a throbbing headache, an upset stomach, and whatever shred of dignity I had left. Unfortunately, after that horrid night, I believe I might've had none.

The man next to me looked oddly different in the hotel light. He looked as if he had a rougher night than I did. The disheveled strands of his hair suctioned to the bone of his forehead, while the silky white skin now had a tint of pink and red. And right around the corner of his lips, I swore you could see a grate of sick and it only added to my nausea.

Wobbly, I managed to sit up and pry his muscular arms off of my tiny waist. The white comforter that had cocooned us remained muddled and disoriented—much like my life choices in the last twenty-four hours. I found it strange how loose the duvets were considering how tightly they were tucked to the bed. It must've been one hell of a night. Or a nightmare, more accurately.

It was dark outside. Through the blackout curtains, just a bit of the sky peeked through. I panted and rose to my feet. The second the bottom of my feet hit the carpet, I truly accepted that my legs were made out of jelly. The side effects of being drunk never had been this bad for me. It was brutal—worse than I'd experienced, which was saying something.

Once I gather myself, I quietly slip on last night's clothes. I try not to puke as I bend over.

Guess I'm going barefoot.

Everything is a blur. I look around to collect the rest of my belongings. Then, I noticed my phone on the floor near the desk. After the night we had, I tried my best to puzzle together the events that happened moments before we did the deed.

I recalled blundering into the hotel lobby and, rather embarrassingly, trampling into a family of four in the elevator.

A mother and a father with two young children. One boy and one girl. Once they realized we were drunk off our asses., the dad practically got off the nearest floor and dragged his kids out. Now, as goes for the wife. . . she'd stay her welcome long past overdue, it even creeped us out as she watched us make out. I assume she was into that freaky shit. Possibly? But anyway, no clue why the parents had their children up at one o'clock in the morning beats me. It's their fault that those poor children had witnessed their first crash course in PDA 101.

The rest of the night speaks for itself.

My cell phone is dead, and I can't call for a lift. I glare at the hotel line but decide against it. Ever since I got my first phone, my mom to this day yelled at me for being irresponsible with important things. But I can't help it. My phone never makes it to a full charge. It's always eighty percent, max. Some days I'm lucky if I even get to charge it at all.

I eye one of those complementary notepads the hotel provides you and, thankfully, I see a convention pass. I just killed two birds with one stone.

I'm at the Luxe Hotel.

With a man named Kody Redd.

Kody's snoring mists the air. I look back and compensate for the pros and cons of ditching him and heading home. I've done it before, and unfortunately, I'd do it again. This isn't my first rodeo—fulfilling these fleeting, one-night stand fantasies. It's not a recurring habit, but I feel like I'll never find stability in a relationship. And this is the next best thing.

Simply intimacy between me and some stranger—nothing else.

No commitments. No hard feelings. And no broken hearts.

The notepad sits underneath my palms. A pen rolls to my left. I try to flashback to my night with Kody. He seemed like a nice guy, but if I were to ever break out from this adult cycle of ding-dong ditch, I don't see myself pursuing anything special with him.

Mr. Kody Redd bites the dust.

Modifying my posture, I balance between the ground and my dizzy brain. I drop the pen back on the table and sneak towards the door. Opening it as quietly as the screws would allow me. I hate hotel doors, primarily at this ungodly hour. Everyone knows when you're awake. Regardless, I had successfully shut it completely without teetering the neighboring rooms. Then, I make my exit.

The elevator is at the deep end of the hall. Considering how hungover I was, it felt like an eternity just to saunter a few feet. Nevertheless, a straight line.

My stomach is swirling like the rinse cycle of the washing machine. It threatened to revolt at any given moment.

One step at a time, I told myself. One, two, one, two, I count continuously. My method seems to work wonders as I graciously distract my distraught mind from the gurgling sound of the swooshing contents in my stomach. I'm less than a stone's throw away from the elevator when I hear mumbling coming from the housekeeping closet—a male voice.

Then, a female voice.

And a whole lot of ruckus.

I might be out of it right now, but I'm hoping they're searching for the Clorox and not creating a new kind of stain.

I covered my ears, trying to block out the noise, and walked forward. I'm nearly towards the double elevators when I'm abruptly sent crashing into the opposite wall. Jolts of pain shoot through my body. First, my right should, and now my arm. I'm too weak to get up right away, though, my eyesight definitely makes up for my reaction time. Angrily, I grit my teeth and toss back my dirty locks. I look up to discover the one and only man that I can't seem to scrape.

"Oaklyn?" I sigh and lay my head on the cool wall behind me. I tried to steady my spinning head. That knockdown really did a number on me. "What are you doing here?" Boston persists.

Without opening my eyes, I shoot back, "I should be asking you the same thing. Are you stalking me now?"

"Stalking you? Seriously, is that what you think this is?" he scoffs, but his attention shifts as he loses his train of thought. I watch as an older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, hurriedly rolls out a cleaning cart from the closet. She bolts in the opposite direction. The wheels squeak as she takes off to avoid the journalist.

This guy is a magnet for hodgepodge. Like, with him there's never a dull moment.

Boston jogs after her but stops halfway. "Wait, we had a deal, remember?" he shouts, keeping his hands raised.

The housekeeper doesn't turn back and speaks as she departs further. "Your offer does sound tempting, but this job is the only one keeping my bills paid. I can't afford to lose it," she yells over her shoulder.

"I can get him to sweeten the deal," Boston proposed.

"No can do, sir," the woman denies.

Boston cups his palms around his mouth to propagate the sound of his voice. "Ma'am!" he calls one last time, but it's no use. She's already gone.

What did he screw up this time?

Boston's voice is too loud and the hallway light fixtures are too bright. Sensitivity to lights and sounds is a part of the encyclopedia of things not to be around when you are this hungover.

"Can you keep it down," I groan. "It's six in the morning. People are trying to sleep."

He spun on his heels and gave me a once-over. My skirt was twisted, almost backwards. I can feel the tag label scratching and stabbing at the skin on my side. The shoulder straps had slipped so low it was practically made into a strapless bra. And to make matters worse, I wore no shoes. Anyone seeing this would think I had a wild night with zero regard for morals.

Wait, but I did.

Boston looked stressed.

"Get up," he commanded, locking his arm within the mine and hoisting me up effortlessly. "How much did you have to drink last night?"

I shrugged.

"On a scale from one to ten, how hungover are you?" he proceeds to press a follow-up question.

I looped the strap of my heels into a wrist bracelet and held up ten fingers.

"Come on. Let's get you out of here." On cue, Boston steered me in the direction of the elevator and slammed the down arrow with more force than necessary. Seriously? The elevator? Considering his fear of the moving death trap?

I yank back my arm, hard enough to break it. "I don't need your help," I whine.

"You sure as hell look like it."

I open my mouth to argue, but he has a point. Instead, I leaned against the wall and kept my mouth shut.

The elevator dings and the doors glide open. I groggily stumble as I stand up straight. Exclusively before we step in, a door slams down the hall, reverberating loudly. If that didn't wake the guests, I'm positive it sure as hell did.
Boston and I peer over our shoulders to see who the culprit is.

My heart plummets to the pit of my stomach.

Fuck.

"What did you do?" Kody spits, yanking me forward. I slump into his arms like a ragdoll.

I'm lost for words. Confusion clouds my mind.

"I don't. . . know what you're talking about," I stammer, my voice shaky. His clasp on my arm is painfully tight. I know it'll leave a nasty bruise later.

Kody doesn't let go. Instead, he tightens his fingers. "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Tell me why I received a notification this morning that over $500 was deducted from my bank account."

I laugh, maintaining eye contact.

"That's not my problem."

In my lifetime, I've lied. I've definitely caused a couple of confrontations. And I've done a few things that might not be entirely legal.

But stealing was never one of them.

Kody went on with his allegations. "First, you get me to have sex with you, and now half a grand magically disappears from my card. Some coincidence, right? What are you, part of some prostitution ring or something?" he snapped.

It's interesting how a man can accuse a woman of lying, but the second a woman shows up with proof to back up her claims, the woman is most of the time either exaggerating or being gaslit for something she has facts, details, and physical evidence from their crimes. In every scenario, the woman is always seen as some crazy lunatic.

What a twisted world we live in.

There are a bunch of options he could do to report fraud: contact the bank for support, report unusual activities, or simply check your online statements.

I think the best option is to leave me out of it.

All I want to do is get home, take a shower, and sleep this god-forbidden hangover off for the next twelve hours.

Is that too much to ask for?

Boston separates between us and shoves Kody back, hard. The sound of Kody's structure impinges the hotel wall. Boston's veins bulge themselves to the exterior, snaking under his skin like the Hudson River. My eyes protrude when Kody's feet are raised off the ground. I left and spotted his Nike slide drop straight down to the carpet. The height difference between them needed no measurement. It was easily obvious that Boston towered a good four or five inches over Kody.

Not too much of an enormous gap, yet it was enough.

But Boston's muscular build is no joke.

That's what made Kody shrink.

"Get your hands off of her," Boston seethes. The way he clenched his jaw, you'd think venom would seep through.  

Kody wasn't threatened. "Oh, is she your little skank, too?"

"Watch your mouth," Boston barked as I edged closer.

"Or what?" Kody barely managed to say before my fist connected with his jaw. This man had zero respect for women.

Did he deserve it? Absolutely.

I didn't know what came over me. Lately, I've been so tied up with men. I felt like the root of all my problems. With Boston hovering around in my life, Sailor unable to find a match, and now this mess with Kody, I couldn't see myself recovering from this anytime soon.

I punched harder than I looked because Kody dropped to the floor, kissing the semi-clean carpet. There was a solid thud.
I shook my hand—damn, that hurt.

Boston scurried backward, eyes as big as quarters. Was he impressed? Or terrified?

Probably both.

"I'm fine with leaving him here if you are," I announced, heading back to the elevators. "There's no turning back unless we want to deal with the cops. I'd much rather go home than spend the night in a jail cell."

Boston stared at Kody, then nodded slowly.

"Where'd you learn how to hit like that?" he asked, his voice a combination of awe and fear.

I sighed, stepping into the elevator. "My dad," I replied, pressing the 'L' on the screen. "Now, come on. We need to leave before he wakes up."

Boston refused to step further.

"Close the doors. I'll meet you in the lobby," he said, backing away. I couldn't convince him otherwise before he bolted.

Right. . . the fear of elevators.

I forgot about that.

The hotel lobby was vacant. A subtle pattern of our footsteps felt vociferous in such an extensive space. The ambiguous shades of black and beige dominated the floors and walls, yet the French-style inspired dome of the gaudy ceiling bled gold and was outlined by an abstract wallpaper to suit the collection of crystals hanging from the chandelier. I don't recollect any knowledge of admiring this beautiful interior. Maybe it is because I was too busy esteeming Kody and all the exterior designs of his facial configuration. 

I met an out-of-breath Boston near the emergency exit.

The smell of Belgium waffles and cinnamon crawls through our senses and I cover my mouth to quell the aroma. Boston notices my actions and gives me an alarming gape. I mouthed that I was fine, and we made our departure through the automatic doors.

Outside, the skyline was painted in pastel blues, oranges, and coral pinks. A row of palm trees cast shadows in the background, with a flock of birds flying over them. I would have stood and taken in the scenery if I didn't feel so sick, making it difficult to focus.

We make our way around the back of the parking deck. I take in the signs that read 'Employees Only Parking' and follow Boston to a black Jeep Wrangler at the edge of the lot.

Boston beats me to the passenger side and opens the door.

"Hop in," he says, motioning inside. "Your chariot awaits."

I eyed the vehicle. I had always pegged Boston as more of a Mustang guy than someone who'd drive a rugged, off-roading Jeep. He gave off that vibe. The Jeep was at least a foot off the ground, making it feel like climbing a miniature mountain. I needed a good amount of strength and energy to get inside. That's something didn't have at the moment.

"How do you expect me to get in this thing?" I questioned.

Boston reaches inside and hooks his fingers to the grab handles. He steps onto the rock-slider running boards along the side. With a repetitive gesture, he jumps in and out of the car with ease. Shocker.

Boston jumps off and flashes a wide smile.

"Easy peasy, lemon squeezy."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, just as easy as taking the elevator?" I shot back, knowing I had hit a soft spot.

He jutted out his lip and narrowed his eyes. I could visibly imagine steam exerting out his ears.

"Just get in the car."

Without a word, I mimic his theatrical instructions and hop in with surprising ease, thanks to Boston's help. Honestly, after that last jab, I half-expected him to sit back and watch me flounder. But he didn't.

Boston leaps into the driver's seat and fires up the engine. "You sure you're okay to sit in a moving vehicle?" he teases.

"Do I have much of a choice?" I retort

"Don't throw up in my car, Oaklyn," he warns, tapping the GPS icon.

I throw my hands up defensively. "Relax, I won't."

There's still a fifty-fifty percent chance I might. We'll have to wait and see.

He takes my word and begins to process the input directions. "What's your address?"

"18594 NW Augusta Avenue."

Boston keys it in and skids out of the lot. We begin to drive north past the hotel.

Regretfully, I got the sudden urge to vomit when Boston sped like a maniac through a yellow light. The contents in my stomach churned violently as he made a sharp right turn to merge onto the exit. The car's abrupt movements felt like a roller coaster gone wrong.

"That guy back there," Boston spoke after several minutes of tense silence. Great, now he chooses to make small talk when I'm fighting for my life. "Did he say that you took half a grand from his checking account?"

l arched towards the window, desperate to hide my face. I couldn't let him see me or else I might let loose right there.

"I didn't take anything," I paused, feeling my mouth water and bile rise. "Pull over."

Boston's head snapped in my direction. "What?" he asked, mistook.

"You heard me. Pull over," I demanded.

The road ahead was an ocean of cars. Boston pushed the gas pedal harder to match the speeding traffic. I sat up, slamming on the hazard lights. If he wasn't going to pull over, I was going to force him to.

"Do you have any idea where we are? We're on the fucking highway," he snapped, frustration sliding out of his tone.

I unfurled my mouth to respond, but instead, a high wave of nausea hit me like a freight train.

"Just do it," I hardly get out, and my mouth begins to water.

Oh, no.

Boston's eyes widened as he glanced over at me. The car swerved slightly as he tried to maneuver through the traffic, but it was too late. I could feel it coming up, fast.

• • •