Party (2)

CHAPTER TWO

Kayla's POV

What's with her and me being kidnapped?

“Stop saying kidnapped, Mel. It makes me cringe,” I told her.

“What do you expect me to think after my ever so dovely best friend goes missing at a party I invited her to have fun in? That she went off with some guy to have sex with him?”

Those words, raw and direct, hit me, and my brain mentally checkmarked the open tick box on me not being so dovey anymore.

“Did you…” she uttered her words cautiously. “...go off with a man to have sex?”

“Mel, please stop mentioning that word —”

“Then tell me where you are and I'll come pick you up,” she cut into my words. “except you're with someone you don't want to —”

Feeling the taunt rising in her voice, I interrupted her sharply.

“I don't know exactly where I am, Mel!” I told her. “I woke up in this small room I assumed to be a hotel room with a cramming headache,”

And the discovery that my virginity left me hours ago.

It took her a minute to speak.

“What are you doing in a hotel room, K?” she asked with her regular inquisitive tone that sounded almost serious, yet had a bit of mock in it.

“Nothing,” I replied, glancing down at my hand that held the duvet properly over my body and the paper note. Gawd, I felt so dirty. “Just…I'll get the name of the hotel and tell you so you can come pick me up out of here,” I told her.

“But —” I didn't let her finish whatever she wanted to say before cutting the line on her. I tossed the phone onto the bed and wore my clothes (a plain wink T-shirt and blue almost washed out jeans) in a jiffy before practically half limping downstairs to the lobby without caring if I'd properly locked the door. I didn't need to reach the receptionist's counter before I saw a large golden glass sign that read “ADDAM'S HOTEL”, which was unfamiliar to me as I have never heard of it before.

I just hope it wasn't out of Quebec.

I turned to find a person I could confirm that from, and just then, a man was walking down from the step that led upstairs.

He looked my age, dark spiky hair, and a very mean demeanor. Plus, he was tall, like 6ft freaking tall.

“Hi, uhm…” I called out, approaching him as he was about to walk off. I got his attention as he paused to look me over. I mentally hoped I didn't look odd.

Or like a girl who just recently lost her virginity.

“What's up?” he asked, raising a brow at me inquisitively.

“Uh…sorry. I just wanted to confirm if this hotel was still in Quebec?”

I felt stupid asking that question; like — really stupid. But still, I hoped he'd give me a positive response.

He gave me one look over, amusement clear on his facial expression, then his lips cracked a smirk.

Great! I thought. I'd asked the wrong person.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Forget it. I'm sorry I stopped you. I'll just ask the receptionist,” I said.

“Hey!” he called, but I didn't turn. I half limped my way to the reception with caring to look back to see if he was following me (which offcourse he wasn't), mentally cursing the whole situation that had brought me to this point.

All of this felt really embarrassing.

I found a petite lady sitting behind the counter, filling something in her register, and the moment she noticed my presence, her gaze went up to me.

“Hi,” I greeted her first.

“Hi,” she greeted back, staring quizzically at me. I leaned an arm on the counter for support, drawing closer to her.

Then, the question I'd wanted to ask her, about the whereabouts of this place, was replaced by another.

“Uh…do you remember me?” I asked. “I uh…came here with someone and we booked a room.”

The feeling that she might recall me coming here with the guy had struck me, so it lead me to ask her that.

She gazed at me for a moment before nodding, slowly, like she was trying to figure out why I was asking.

“Okay, uh…do you perhaps remember the man I came here with?” I asked, drumming my fingers on the counter table as I stared at her.

“I do, but, is there any problem, ma'am?” she asked, creasing a brow at me.

“Uh…you see…” one of my hands ran involuntarily through my blonde, sticky hair that I realised I had to wash when I get home. “I was drunk last night,” I began telling her. “And I wasn't very sane to know what was going on around me …” I paused, hoping she'd get me without me having to say everything.

“So you want me to give you a description of the man you came here with last night, because you don't remember him,” she pointed with narrowed eyes at me, and I repeatedly bobbed my head.

“Please, if you can.” I told her.

“Well,” she took her gaze from me down to the register on her laps, wrote something in it, and closed it shut. “I can't really give you much description though,” she said.

Much or not, I needed descriptions. Even the littlest bit, and maybe, probably, it would refresh my memory and I'd recall everything that happened when I was over