Blinded by Perfection

17- Secrets?

Chapter 17 | Secrets?

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When I finally come back around, I awake to semi-familiar surroundings.

I'm lying in what looks like a queen sized bed that sits on the far left side of the room. I immediately take notice it's more plush than my own bed back at home, and a fluffy, plaid scarlet and sable colored blanket is pulled over me.

Walls painted ultramarine enclose me in the room, and the door located in front of the bed has an original, mini basketball hoop hanging from the top. Thin, see through curtains hang over the single window on the other side of the room, though it does no justice to the dim lighting from the lights overhead.

I'm in the same room I was placed in after the night of the party and the horrible incident that I still wear bruises to prove of. And who threw that party?

Noah.

I'm at Noah's house. My mother would kill me if she ever finds out I ever had my presence in a boys house without her knowledge ―especially for the second time.

"About time you wake up," thunders a masculine voice from a few feet within the hallway. Soon after he speaks up, Noah in his full glory appears from under the doorway.

His attire consists of a baggy long sleeved white tee paired with comfy grey sweatpants. His dirty blond hair is tousled every which way, but despite everything, he still manages to look good. I'll never admit I just said that, but it makes me see why girls would be attracted to him.

As he walks in, I heave myself up into a sitting position. A flaring soreness instantly coats my aching muscles, but I attempt to brush it off and ignore it.

"What time is it?" I ask, tone raspy. Self concious, heat floods my cheeks as I acknowledge the unattractive abnormality in my voice, and rather inconspicuously, I softly clear my throat.

His expression seems to shift at the sound of my voice and something behind his eyes dances, but I can't pinpoint what he's thinking.

"Around 2 in the morning," he mumbles tiredly, lips barely moving as he utters the words.

He walks over to the bed in sluggish motions. I don't blame him. He probably only got a couple hours of sleep. I consider us both well past the term sleep deprived.

As he approaches my spot on the bed, he sets down a brown canister on the white twist pile carpet underneath. Before I have a chance to ask him what he has, he sits himself next to me on the bed. So he doesn't land on them, I'm forced to move my legs out of the way.

"You mind telling me what exactly I've gotten myself into? What in the name of all Hell just happened?" He says this in a strained tone, dragging a hand down his face before latching his gaze into mine.

His reserved, silver hued eyes stare at mine questioningly, faint concern subtly visible beneath their tough barriers. Transfixed by their unfamiliar yet transfixing waters, I begin to ramble on in a never ending sentence.

"My mom told me to go to the coffee shop to finish my homework, so I did. Then some guy came into the shop, but I left because he gave me major creeps. He ended up following me, so I freaked out and called you. Then I figured out I left my keys in my car and he caught up with me by then so I threw my coffee cup at him and dropped my phone and then ran into the woods. He had a knife, but I held him off as much as I could."