American Sweethearts

3

I scour through my handbag, searching in every single pocket. It has to be in here somewhere. I already looked here once, but I could've sworn I put them in here before I left this morning. I even searched through my bedsheets, and the wardrobe, and the bathroom. There's no way I left them in San Francisco. No way. It's impossible. I wouldn't do that.

If I don't find them soon, I'm going to lose my mind. I need my headphones. I need music.

"You okay?" Lena mumbles, turning over to face me.

"Yeah, sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"Uh-hmm."

"I'm sorry, go back to sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

She rests her head back down on her pillow, shutting her eyes. She's probably just as exhausted as I am, but she doesn't have any reason not to sleep. We spent all night finishing up the room. Most things are in place now, but some of our clothes are still piled up in boxes.

Wait! The car! My headphones could've fallen out in the car.

I open the door as quietly as possible. I stick my head out into the hallway, listening to see if Owen is still awake. There's a light on somewhere, but I can't hear anything. I tip-toe into the hall, slowly making my way towards the living area. But as soon as I get a full view of the space, I realise I'm not alone.

There's a guy standing in the kitchen, dripping blood onto the floor. My heart thumps in my chest, but it's too late for me to turn around. He glances at me, letting his eyes pierce mine.

I swear, if looks could kill...

"Who the fuck are you?" he demands.

I freeze. This guy looks furious. This has to be Tyler, right? Who else would be here? Criminals don't rob houses in their underwear.

The blood is coming from his outer thigh. There are bruises all over him. His knuckles are red, and his eyes are bloodshot. His chest is dirty. There's mud all over it, covering most of his muscle definition. He's bigger than Owen. Stronger. More... angry.

His facial features are distinct. He's got a straight nose, and a strong jawline, but it's covered up by some stubble. His hair is a dark brown colour, almost black. It's trimmed short on the sides, leaving a mop of ringlets on the top.

There are some small tattoos littered over his skin, but I can't properly make them out from here. He's got black gauges pierced in both his ears, and what looks like a scar over this forehead.

His whole aura beams trouble.

"Well?" he urges. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm- I'm Sarah," I mumble. "I'm friends with Lena."

"Lena?" he frowns, taken aback by my words.

"Owens sister..." I remind him.

"Shit," he mumbles, realisation dawning on him. "That was today?"

"We arrived this morning."

"Fuck," he groans.

"You're Tyler?" I ask.

"Obviously," he snickers. He turns away from me, returning his attention to whatever he was doing before I showed up. But I cringe when I see what that is. There's a first aid kit sitting on the kitchen bench. He picks up the needle and string, bringing it to his injured leg. He winces, sowing his skin together.

"What are you doing?" I ask, taking a hesitant step towards him.

"Stitching myself up," he says. "What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?"