Fifty Degrees of Shade - The Billionaire's Badass Mate - On hold for a bit!

13. Between Dog and Wolf

I wake in a pool of drool, my face pressed into a strange, flat pillow. My mouth is dry as toilet paper and tastes like ... well ... toilet paper.

My befuddled brain tries to piece together recent memories, hoping to find out where I am without having to do something bothersome, like open my eyes or move my head. Pain rips through my skull at the slightest shift in position. Brain, work, okay? I need you. Where is my internal goddess now that I could use her?

Oh, there she is, off in the corner of my mind, her head over a bucket, her skin-tinged green, grimacing like a drenched cat.

Some help you are, you useless goddess!

She sticks her tongue out at me. There are no cartwheels, flips, or even a mild twerk. If you're ever tempted to get an internal goddess of your own, I don't recommend it. They interrupt the enjoyable moments and abandon you in the bad. Instead of a goddess, maybe go for an internal social media influencer or fashion designer or jet-setting European royalty. Someone who shares your goals.

But none of that woolgathering solves the mystery of where I am.

Possible options:

In the hospital, waking from a coma, suffering from irreversible amnesia.

In jail for something truly heinous, like crimes against fashion or cutting off the "do not remove under penalty of law" tag from a mattress.

Accidentally placed in a coffin, after a shoot-out with police over removal of mattress tag.

Shards of memories bubble to the surface.

Last night.

Last Chance.

Graduation celebration.

Margaritas.

Jacob!

Jacob hitting on me!

My stomach lurches. Oh, no, no, no. Not Jacob. Please, no. He's like a brother. An uber-hot, abdominally ripped brother who thinks Axe Spray is still a thing.

Is it too late to choose the coffin or jail?

Am I in his apartment?

No, the pillow doesn't smell like "Dark Temptation" or "Essence of Body Sweat" or whatever Axe fragrances they're selling these days.

Holy crap!

It smells like dog.

This makes me think of Crispin.

Fear creeps along my neck, tightening like a dog collar.

I roll over slowly, my head protesting the entire way. Once I'm on my back, I gird myself for the effort it will take to open my eyes. They're so gummy, it's like someone super-glued my lids during the night. Fortunately, I manage. Some of us are just heroes, right?

The dark room is a relief. My eyes are not ready for actual use. Baby steps!

More memories descend. They involve Crispin, my current employer (hopefully I haven't lost my job), and future billionaire husband (hopefully I haven't blown my chances before I've had a chance to blow him!)

But I am not ready for mortifying Crispin memories!

Hey, you. Memories! Stop descending while I mentally prepare. I take a deep breath, straighten the sheets beneath my chin, and remind myself that even though I'm clumsy, and not very beautiful, I am a Vogue model, dammit!

Okay, now descend ...

There I am, in a humid bathroom with poor lighting, on the toilet, calling Crispin!