Blinded

Chapter 15

Kayla's POV
My head is splitting.

The kind of headache that feels like it's drilling through my brain from the inside out. I haven't even opened my eyes yet, but I already know something's off. My body feels heavy. My mouth tastes like old tequila and regret.

I finally force myself upright, blinking at the sunlight bleeding through the blinds. I squint down at myself—still halfway in last night's dress, one strap off my shoulder, heels kicked off near the edge of the bed. My phone's buzzing somewhere under the sheets. I fish it out with shaky fingers.

6% battery. 49 missed texts. 13 new numbers. A bunch of airdropped photos.
And DMs. So many DMs.

My heart starts thumping in my chest—not fast, but deep. Like a weight dropping.

I swipe open my camera roll.

First photo? Me and Alyssa taking shots at the club. I'm laughing, mouth wide open, eyes glassy. Next? A video of us dancing—no, wilding. Grinding. Bent over. Tongue out. One of the NBA players behind me, flashing his chain and throwing up peace signs like we were at a music video shoot.

Then another video—me on some guy's lap in the section. I'm twerking. He's grabbing my waist. Someone else's voice in the background yelling, "Yo, Kayla goin' crazy tonight!"
The room spins, and I'm not even moving.

I scroll faster.

There's a clip of me dancing on two different guys. Another where I'm pouring liquor into a player's mouth while someone chants, "Body shot! Body shot!" Then there's that moment I somehow forgot—the one where the guys dared me and Alyssa to kiss. And we did. In front of everybody. In front of phones.

I hit pause.

The frozen image on my screen? My hand in her hair, her leg between mine, both of us looking like we had no shame left in the world.

I feel sick.

I keep scrolling. There's a blurry shot of me on the couch at the mansion, head thrown back laughing, with at least three basketball players on either side of me. One has his hand on my thigh. I don't even remember his name. Another video plays and it's us outside in front of the Range Rover, stumbling. Alyssa pulling my dress down because it's halfway up my hips. And then—Shai Gilgeous-Alexander's voice offscreen asking, "Y'all good?"

My skin burns.

I wasn't okay. Not even close.

I saved all these? Did I even look at them when I did? Or was I just... out of it? Caught up in the moment, in the attention, in the chaos?

I press my hands to my face.

I don't even recognize myself.

This wasn't about fun. This was about forgetting. About escaping. About proving something I didn't need to prove—to myself, to Clarence, to my ex, to anybody.

I thought being wanted would make me feel whole again. But looking at this mess?

I feel empty.

Another notification buzzes through. A text from a random number:
"Last night was fire. You the baddest in the room fr. 😮‍💨🔥"
And below it, a TikTok link. I don't even want to click.

I toss the phone onto the bed like it's burning me.

My hands shake as I stand, legs sore from dancing, head still foggy. I look in the mirror and barely recognize the girl staring back.

Curly hair matted. Makeup smudged. Eyes red—not from being high, not from drinking. From trying too hard to act like I don't care.

But I do.
I care so much.