I'll take it slow for your first time. Blurry, indecipherable pieces. Like looking through a kaleidoscope. Or listening to a Walkie Talkie that's been submerged in strawberry pudding. I blink, then realize that, no, I haven't fallen into a vat of pink goo, it's just my hair in my face.
The red has faded a little in the past weeks, meaning I really, really, need to re-dye it soon. That, and someone spilled Kool Aid all over the floor.
Who the hell is shooting fireworks at this time of night? Their voice is smooth and steady, and instantly recognizable. A second later, a pair of impossibly strong arms lift me suddenly into the air. Before I know it, I'm pulled against a muscular chest, the familiar smell of eucalyptus and fabric softener infiltrating my nose.
For some reason, my body isn't responding normally. It's like when you're half-awake, and can't quite get your arms to move. He shifts me in his arms, adjusting me so that I'm tucked neatly against his biceps. They're annoyingly impressive just like the rest of him. Giving up on escape, I blink rapidly, urging my vision to focus. The room gradually sharpens into clarity. My brow furrows in confusion a second later. What's more, the mess I'd taken as the aftermath of a party looks suspiciously like a set from a horror movie.
Rather than red solo cups scattering the furniture, there are bullet holes. Where I'd expect to see shot glasses, a knife. And instead of hungover college kids, a heavyset man is lying facedown on the floor.
