Under the Influence

Nice Try

Shawnie's POV

The next day, I woke up on my stomach, with my face buried in the pillow. The sunlight is blinding when I finally force my eyes open, and I flinch immediately, squeezing them shut again with a groan, reaching blindly toward the nightstand until my fingers find the remote. I press the button and the curtains slide shut, plunging the room back into dim quiet. I let the remote fall somewhere off the bed and slowly open my eyes again.

Everything feels off.

I reach over to Chris's side of the bed and I don't feel him. That alone makes me sit up.

I pull myself up and sit completely up, leaning against the headboard. I feel so groggy, and out of it. My body aches in ways I can't immediately explain. My legs, my hips, even my jaw feel sore. I frown, trying to shake the fog out of my head, and grab my phone from the nightstand.

"2:47...WHAT?"

My phone has to be wrong. There's no way I slept this long. Chris never lets me sleep like this.

I hit his name and brought the phone to my ear. He answers on the second ring.

"Hey, baby," he answers.

"Where are you?" My voice comes out rough.

"Downstairs. In the studio."

"Why did you let me sleep this late?" I ask, already irritated, already uneasy.

"You looked peaceful. I didn't wanna wake you," he says lightly. "You've been doing a lot."

"But I had work today."

"Oh... well, that's dead." He laughs.

I just hung up.

I drag myself into the bathroom, turning on the light and staring at my reflection. I look terrible. My hair's a mess. My eyes are heavy. And I'm sore. Everywhere. My legs. My body. Even my jaw feels tight.

I turn on the bath water, sitting on the edge as I try to piece together last night.

"Chris?" I call out, even though I know he's downstairs.

Before I can move, the door opens. He walks in like everything is fine, like I'm not sitting here trying to remember my own night.

He leans down and kisses me, but I don't kiss him back.

"What did we do last night?" I ask immediately.

He smirks like it's a joke.

"Smoked and fucked. A lot."

I stare at him. "...Why don't I remember anything?"

"Probably because it was different from what you're used to."

"What does that mean?"

He looks at me. "It was laced with a little fentanyl."

For a second, I don't even process it. Then it hits me.

"What?" My voice sharpens instantly. "What the fuck did you just say?"

He doesn't react the way he should. Doesn't look alarmed. Doesn't even look sorry.

"It wasn't like that—"

"What the fuck?" I grab a bottle of my shower gel from the counter and throw it at him. "You drugged me!"

"Nah, it wasn't—"

"DON'T—" My voice cracks, loud, shaking. "Don't you dare say it wasn't like that."

His phone starts ringing. He glances at it, ignores it, and sets it down like this conversation isn't serious.

I stare at him in disbelief. "Chris... do you hear yourself right now?"