UNEDITED
After violating campus rules and committing student misconduct, twenty-three-year-old Warren Ashford is deep trouble and at risk of losing his volleyball scholarship -- the one thing he truly values other than his bad boy reputation, and hi...
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Nova
I wake up with a pounding headache. It's an unfamiliar pain, and it needs to be dealt with. Groaning, I roll over to wake Warren up and ask him to get me a glass of water and a couple of pills. But when I reach out, all I can grab is air. I frown to myself. Warren's never up before me. Where could he be? I reach out further and my hand hits more air. I finally lower my arm, finding an empty, cold pillow beside me.
Peeking through my heavy lashes, I discover that I am alone.
Sitting up, I see that it must be close to noon. Eleven at the earliest. I don't know. I can barely tell because the headache I have feels like a balloon under my skull, slowly being inflated and increasing the pressure; increasing the probability that it will blow at any second.
I reach up and rub my temples. My God. What did I do last night at the pub?
I wish I could wash my brain free of the toxins.
I wish my throat would stop burning for water.
Shifting my weight in the bed, I catch a whiff of alcohol. My stomach jumps, and I almost laugh. How funny it is that the smell of alcohol was intoxicating last night, yet this morning it contributes to nausea?
Turning my concentration away from the headache, I search the room for the bathroom door. Maybe Warren just woke up and he's only a room away. I wonder if I could shout at him and he'd be able to hear me so I could –oh, no.
My eyes catch sight of my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. I see my shoes. Warren's shoes. But what really catches my attention is the small, ripped packet I see on the floor.
That's all it takes for me to realize what's gone on, and my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. There's no way...But when I close my eyes and try to picture what happened last night, I'm bombarded with memories of the bar. Whisky. A pool table. Nachos. A stage. A song. I hear my own voice telling Warren to take me home, and the familiar burn of emotions.
For some reason, I look down, only to discover that I am fully exposed from my head to my waist. I quickly pull the sheets up to my shoulders. With all the sudden movement, I smell the alcohol again, but I also smell his scent – sandalwood.
My stomach lurches.
It actually happened. Warren and I slept together. I cover my mouth to stifle a gasp, and as if my body can no longer function, I flop back against the pillows, my eyes fixated on a small paint stain on the ceiling. The headache I have has risen up a few notches, and my throat is parched.
It actually happened. Warren and I slept together.
I shoot a quick glance at the empty space beside me. And, to my surprise, a moment of panic seizes me by the throat. The bathroom door is closed, but maybe Warren left. Maybe he left me behind because I was terrible and he regretted it. The room is too quiet. I'm so used to waking up to his peaceful breathing every morning before I go on a run. Warren should be by my side like he is every day. Like in the movies. After a drunken escapade, we're supposed to wake up beside each other and both feel the shame of our mistakes. What he's done...it isn't fair.
