And then…nothing.
Nada.
Zip.
Zero.
Zilch.
There is one big, embarrassing blank space where my memoriesshouldbe.
In case you’ve been keepingscore…
Tequila:1
Lila:0
From the fuzzy puzzle pieces I’ve spent the day attempting to piece together in my mind, at some point I must’ve passed out on Phoebe’s couch, because the next thing I can recall is her dark living room spinning around me like a hallway full of fun house mirrors as my body was lifted effortlessly into a set of arms that felt like they were madeofiron.
Other than that, all I have are imprints, echoes of memories just out of my reach. It’s like catching a glimpse of someone from the corner of your eye who disappears as soon as you turn your head to look; like a camera that refuses to focus, leaving the whole world a blur of indistinctshapes.
The faint scent ofaftershave.
The jangling ofcarkeys.
The steady thumping of a heartbeat just beneath my ear, where it rested against the fabric of a black t-shirt.
The deep, familiar voice cutting through the haze oftequila.
I’ll take her home. Put her to bed. Make sureshe’ssafe.
I tell myself that, if I’d been only slightly more sober, I would’ve put up a fight. Would’ve insisted on hopping in a cab, or crashing at Phoebe’s place. After all, Delilah James Sinclair doesn’t depend on anybody. She doesn’t need a knight in shining armor — hell, she doesn’t even believe they exist anyplace outside of fairytales.
I tell myself this in the hopes that, if I say it enough, maybe it’ll become true. Maybe I’ll be able to stop wishing I could remember how his phone number wound up on my hand… or wondering why I can’t forget the feeling of those strong arms around me, holding me close. Maybe I won’tcarewhether that strange sensation of lips brushing lightly against my forehead as I was tucked into my bed like a child was real or a figment of my drunkenimagination.
Maybe.
I can’t sayforsure.
All I can say with certainty is, the first time I laid eyes on Luca Buchanan, I knew he was trouble — and my opinion hasn’t changed in all the months since. This is at least in part because the man is seriouslyscary— cut like a Spartan warrior, with insane blue eyes I swear can see straight through you, a short crop of auburn hair, and a fuck-off attitude from years spent kicking ass in fighting circuits all across New England. At six foot four, he usually towers over everyone in the room and glowers at anyone who glances in his direction looking for trouble. He’s not someone you mess with, if you want to walk away with four functioninglimbs.
Still, all that wouldn’t besobad…
If not for theotherthing.
The truly troubling, absolutely awfulthing.
The thing I have a hard time admitting, even tomyself.
Which is the unfortunate fact that… in my twenty-five years of life on planet earth, I’ve never seen anyone as attractive… as unforgettable… as magnetically, electrifyingly, earth-shatteringlyhotas “Blaze”Buchanan.
Ever.
And yes, that includes the time I saw Jake Gyllenhaal on a plane at LAX when I was seventeen, and the all-too-brief encounter I had with Danny Amendola at Gillette Stadium last fall, and even the time I bumped into Ian Somerhalder in line for the bathrooms at Bonaroo. One look at Luca was all it took to forget about Jake’s green eyes and Danny’s sexy scruff and Ian’s unparalleledjawline.
It happened just beforeChristmas.
My fling-of-the-week had told me about an underground fight at a local gym — totally off-the-books, the kind of match they don’t broadcast on pay-per-view, the kind you’d never even know where to find without a tip-off from one of the organizers, since the locations vary for everyfight.