The Gate

Chapter Eight: The Morning After

I jerk awake and take a look around, almost not recognizing the change of scenery from an ocean view to... dry wall. Crappy, old, floral wallpaper. Wonderful. I move to get out of bed before realizing there happens to be a certain... attachment? Holding me in place. Oh look, an arm. And, oh! Of a man! Double wonderful. I'm too tired for this. I need to get out of here, find some coffee. And fast.

I peer over the edge of the bed, searching for something to put on. My eyes land on a dark dress shirt. That'll work. I work my way out of the mystery man's arm entrapping my waist and slip into the shirt, buttoning it quickly. I make my break for the door as quietly as possible, not bothering to check and see who is sleeping in my bed. I refuse to acknowledge any mistakes drunk me may have made until after I've had some coffee.

I close the door of my room, praying it doesn't make that stupid creaking noise it normally does. The more time I have alone the better. I creep down the hallway and enter the bathroom on my left, immediately deciding I need to brush my hair after being faced with myself in the small bathroom mirror. At least drunk me knows how to have a good time, I guess. I pick up the brush and attempt to drag it through my tangled mess of hair. In doing so, I can't help but think back to my dream.

Oh, Nina. How I've missed you. I've missed all of you, truly. I hate to wonder what you all might think of me if you were to see what I've become, not to mention the things I'm doing to get back to you. Hopefully, you'll never have to know. Not about me, not about this place, and certainly not about that wretched trap of a company. None of it.

I finish brushing out my hair and drag myself out of the bathroom and into my tiny kitchen. As I make a pot of coffee, moments from the night before flash in my head. Let's see, I went back inside, had a few drinks, and messed around a bit. I pour some of the coffee into yesterday's mug and decide against diluting my only source of energy for the day with any creamer. I messed around... i got home... I messed around... it was... 11? Maybe? I messed around... with who?

Who did I mess around with?

My thoughts and I are interrupted, as usual, when once again I feel an arm slither around my waist from behind, inadvertently adjusting the loose fabric of his shirt. Before I can turn my head to see for myself exactly who's shirt it is, his lips appear on my neck, where I think there might be a sore or something. Real classy, Cassie Brekker. Drunken sex and inappropriate bruises.

   "Making coffee, Mystery Girl?" My eyes widen. Crap. That voice. That smooth, lady swooning voice. I whip around, wearing a horrified expression.

   "What are you doing here?!" I half yell. He just smirks down at me, taunting me with the extra five inches of height he has on me. Or perhaps against me. Whatever.

   "I think based on my appearance and yours it's pretty clear what I'm doing here, but if you need a reminder I'd be happy to oblige." I glare at him, wishing he'd just burn up and leave me alone.

   "Shouldn't you be off kicking puppies and harboring hostages?" His hand goes to his bare chest dramatically.

   "Castiel, dear, you wound me! Kicking puppies? Do you really think so low of me?" So I told him my name. Perfect. I roll my eyes and return to stirring my coffee.

   "It is too early in the morning for me to deal with your stupid voice." Stupid, incredibly hot voice. Though I think it's mostly the accent that's hot, his voice could be a tad lower. He just chuckles and leans against the counter beside me.

   "You didn't think my voice was so stupid last night," I roll my eyes and push his chest before walking away, mug in hand. He just laughs and follows close behind. "In fact, you seemed to find it quite charming. Something about a... swoon, was it?" I glare at him over my shoulder and enter my room, slamming the door right in his face. "You can't hide in there forever!" He teases.