Written as Lisa Lynn Meyer
A Touch of Silence
For my beloved daughter, Mariana, who lives her life with one foot in English and the other in Spanish. Te amo muchísimo, Chulis.
Many thanks to my wonderful beta readers Leila, Monika, Ursa, and Akiko for all their input and hard work. I couldn’t have done this without you.
For a long moment, the warmth between sleep and wakefulness cradles me in its lazy embrace. I do my best to sink further into it, but the pleasure evaporates with my next breath as my body’s complaints pull into painfully sharp focus – thirst, headache, nausea, and, most urgently, a screaming bladder.
What the hell?
Confusion swamps my barely functioning brain cells until the obvious slowly comes to me. I’m hungover – in a very bad way.
I groan.
Wasn’t I going to cut down?
My arm snakes out to test the space beside me on the bed, but it’s empty. Cracking my eyelids by a sliver, I’m greeted by an unfamiliar bedroom. God, even frowning hurts.
Figuring out where I am will have to wait though. There’s a more pressing matter. I need to find a bathroom. Clumsily, I throw off the covers and my muscles rebel. Every part of me aches, and not just the usual hangover victims, but my legs, my shoulders . . . between my thighs . . . even the back of my throat. What did I do last night? I make an attempt to comb my memory for an explanation, and come up with . . . nothing.
Ignoring a twinge of unease, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and get hit with the mother of all head rushes. When my world settles, I realize that I’m lopsided. Looking down, I find only one black stiletto. And my mini dress is bunched up around my waist like some kind of retro tube top, leaving my bottom and top halves exposed. Reflexively, I pull it up and shove my arms through the straps, but one side of the dress flops back down, the strap broken.
I tamp down on the rising panic as I scan my surroundings. In the corner of the dimly lit room, I spy my missing shoe, and then, my cell phone on the bedside table. Relief courses through me until I reach for it and freeze at the sight of a red ring around my wrist. Is that rope burn?
Snatching my phone off the table, I grunt in dismay when it stays dark. The battery’s dead.
“Stay calm, Piper,” I whisper. “You’re fine.”
Standing on wobbly legs, I pull down the dress. The fact that I’m not wearing any underwear would bother me if I didn’t know myself so well. I first hobble my way to the corner to collect my shoe and then head to the door. My hand shakes disconcertingly as it closes around the knob before I pull the door open and stick my head into a hallway that’s even dimmer than the bedroom. I’m not sure which unnerves me more, the utter silence or that I have no recollection of this place.
Cautiously, I nudge the door across the hall open and find the bathroom. The sound of the door closing behind me makes me jump, and then thunderbolts of pain shoot to the center of my head when I hit the light switch.
Since I’m leaning forward on the counter, the first thing I see when my eyes have adjusted to the sudden brightness are the bright red rope burns around both my wrists. Swallowing hard at the mounting evidence, I stumble to the toilet to relieve myself. I hate that I have no clue what I did last night.
My now tear-blurred gaze catches on the trash can beside me. It’s littered with used condoms . . . way more condoms than one man would need in a night – or even two.
Oh my god. What did I do?
Keeping my eyes averted, I strap my bare foot back into my shoe with trembling fingers, pausing only briefly when I see more rope burns around my ankles. I make more of an effort to think back and images of getting ready for a night out with my best friend, Candy, come to me, but it’s hazy. I’m not sure if they’re actually from last night or just generic stand-ins for the millions of times we’ve gone out together.
Frustrated, I go back to the sink where there’s nothing reassuring waiting for me in the mirror, just blood-shot raccoon eyes and tangled blond hair. After I wash my hands, I make a brief attempt to clean myself up while trying to cajole my memory into giving up its secrets.
Slowly, it starts to trickle in . . . getting ready with Candy. Gunnar and Cody picking us up, the club, shots, dancing, more and more shots . . . sitting on some guy’s lap . . . some guy who’s not Gunnar. The memories become even murkier at this point, but I’m definitely getting the impression that I made out with this guy who’s not my boyfriend.
Where was Gunnar? Another deep breath brings more information, and I’m suddenly wishing it hadn’t. Gunnar was there. And we agreed to . . . Swap? With strangers? Damnit, Gunnar . . . except maybe it was my idea.
After that, even though my mind tries to shut down the memories, I get flashes of ropes and sex, lots and lots of sex . . . with strangers.
With my hand covering my mouth, I watch my head give a tiny shake of denial in the mirror. Did I want that? Why did I want that? While I’m the furthest thing from a prude, it doesn’t make sense. I promised myself I wouldn’t do things like this anymore. The nagging ugliness of regret will stay with me for days and knowing it wasn’t me who made such potentially unsafe choices, but the alcohol, makes it even worse. Gin doesn’t just lower my inhibitions, it obliterates them . . . and Gunnar knows that.
“That’s not important right now, Piper,” I whisper to myself.
I slink into the super-quiet hall and teeter my way toward the light coming from the living area. I’m in an apartment and it’s bright. Floor to ceiling windows flood a combined kitchen and living space with light, but I get not a hint of recognition. My already jittery heart takes off at a gallop when I spot a guy sitting in an armchair in the corner with his head bent over his cellphone.
Fight or flight?
“Who are you?” I demand.
Fight it is then.
The guy’s head jerks up. This is not the guy from last night, and worse, I don’t like the disdain he paints me with from head to toe. I step closer to the kitchen island to shield my lower half as his disgust morphs into annoyance. “Finally. You got your shit together?” he says. “I’ve got things to do today.”
“Like tie a completely wasted woman to a bed?”
He blanches slightly under the dark brown of his well-trimmed beard. His eyes linger on the ripped strap of my dress that hangs low enough to show a bruise forming on the slope of my breast.
“Don’t pretend you weren’t into it.”
He gets to his feet and fight immediately becomes flight. With fear rushing me like a linebacker, I turn on my heel to dart for the door.
I hear, “Hey!” just as the door closes behind me. Unsure of which way to go, I feel panic begin to well up in me until the elevator dings about twenty feet down the hall. Scurrying in my heels, I slip past a mom with a stroller who’s getting off. Another, “Hey!” echoes down the hall, making me punch frantically at the lobby button until the door finally slides closed.
For all eight floors of the descent, I stare at the number panel in a daze while my heart pounds in my chest. Why would I put myself in that situation? The swooping sensation of coming to a stop forces me to brace my unsteady legs. The door opens and I squint against the bright, natural light as I stumble out onto marble tiles. I don’t make it very far. Propping myself against the wall, I haul deep breaths into my lungs in an effort to think clearly.