Bad Things

14. Forsaken

  How many times can I break til I shatter?
Over the line, can't define what I'm after
I always turn the car around
Give me a break; let me make my own pattern
All that it takes is some time
But I'm shattered
I always turn the car around

- O.A.R. 

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When Camila awoke the next morning, she wasn't in her own bed. Her mind, still in those precious few moments of not asleep and not yet awake, where everything was a hazy blur of reality and dreams, started to clear. The sound of rain pattered against the window and low gray light filtered in through the glass. A naked blonde woman sitting on a black stallion stared seductively down at her from the ceiling, only the long, bleached locks shielding Camila's eyes from all the girl-parts she didn't want to see.

She blinked the sleep from her eyes and looked around. More posters of partially clothed or naked women, overflowing trash, and piles upon piles of what Camila assumed were dirty clothes stared back at her.

The certainty of where she was clicked in her mind. She was in Alex's room. And then something else clicked too.

She wasn't alone.

Camila became very aware of a weight pressing on her abdomen. It wasn't too heavy, but it was enough to make taking in a deep breath difficult. She looked down and again saw dark messy hair. This dark mess was rich brown, slightly curled, and attached to a very warm and very asleep boy. Heat pooled in her cheeks as Camila realized what this meant.

She'd slept with Shawn Mendes, but like, actually slept this time.

He lay sprawled across the bed—while she was pushed all the way to one side—his legs tangled in a dark blanket, and his head resting on Camila's lower chest. He had one arm tucked against his side and the other wrapped around her stomach, holding her as if she were a pillow. Which, if she wanted to get technical, she kind of was. Camila bit her lip to hold back a laugh. It was so cute the way he was twisted up with her, the way he held her like a possession, even the way he was a total bed and blanket hog. She couldn't see his face, just all that dark hair everywhere, but she imagined his face in sleep would be just as cute. He seemed to hate that term, but Camila couldn't help but think that's what he was—along with beautiful, hot, gorgeous, whatever other adjective one wanted to use to describe a good-looking guy. But the cuteness wasn't about his looks; it was about him, who he was, what he was.

He was cute, and Camila liked cute.

Camila could have stayed there all day, letting his weight press down on her, letting him hold her despite the inability to breathe deeply (Who needed to breathe when they were in this position with a beautiful boy?) but her oddly kinked back had other ideas. She shifted a little, trying not to wake him, but his grip tightened around her. It was at that moment that her stomach gave her that familiar, warning jolt.

"Oh, no," she said to herself. Swallowing against the beginning of the nausea she knew would only get worse, she lowered her hand to Shawn's hair and threaded her fingers through it, shaking him slightly. "Shawn? Shawn, I need to get up."