“No!” I scream.
“Rosie! Jesus, it’s just a dream, Rosebud. Just a nightmare.” My eyes are blinking away a haze. I feel my heart thrashing around in my chest as I pant, hard. Trying to catch my breath, my eyes begin to focus, and they find Caleb’s dark eyes, the violet looking more purple with the moonlight shining right into them. “Breathe,” he implores, his hands firm on my cheeks, and I do.
I suck in a deep breath before letting it go.
“Just a dream,” I whisper, and he slowly dips his head in confirmation. I never get nightmares though. I’m a deep sleeper. If I dream, it’s brief and not really detailed; I don’t always remember them. But this? This was the most vivid thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Yeah, pretty girl. Just a dream.” His lips tip slightly on one side, but his brows pucker in concern.
“Oh thankfuck.” My forehead falls into his shoulder, and I manage to garner my surroundings.
We’re in his apartment, on his bed, with his silk sheets as I sit now perched in his lap. I tense when he moves his arms to wrap around me and I make sure to disentangle myself, looking down at my dress.
“Do you, uh, have anything more comfortable?”
“Oh, of course.” He gets up, heading to his wardrobe, coming back with a T-shirt. “Obviously I don’t have any women’s clothing, but this should work. Also, I realized you like to wear a lot of…uh, panties that look like shorts?—”
“They’re called boyleg.” I smirk up at him as he throws the clothes in my lap, rolling his eyes.
“Whatever, I put some boxers in there for you too. I’ll go make a tea while you get changed.” He turns and heads for the door, his hand scratching at the back of his head.
“Tea? You drink tea?” He turns when he gets to the door, opening it and giving me a playful grin.
“God no. But apparently it’s soothing, and I’m going to make you some tea. Okay?” He nods and closes the door behind him.
“Okay,” I say to the empty room. Well…that was thoughtful. I look around seeing my purse on the bedside, my phone plugged into a charger.
I climb from the bed, tapping the screen—a surprise to no one that I have three missed calls from my father, but I pay attention only to the time. One in the morning, which tells me I napped on Caleb’s bed for an hour.
A shiver goes down my spine at seeing my father’s name, memory of the dream flashing through my mind again. “What the fuck was that,” I whisper to myself, but I don’t allow myself the time to dwell on it. The nightmare was batshit crazy—I mean, a kid?! Why thefuckwas my brain putting children in my dreams?
Nightmare, for sure.
Not that Idon’twant them, I just never thought about it, never planned for it. I sure as hell wasn’t bringing spawn into the hell that is the Garcia/Castillo life, so I never figured it would be for me. Plus, I don’t even think parenting is something Icando. Like, nurture them? Care for them? Listen to them cry and wipe their shit? My whole body shivers. “Yuck.”
It’s probably just the result of not enough sleep and too many work hours. I really should take some time off.
“Ha! Time off.” I sputter at my own joke. “Hilarious.”
Oh look, I’m talking to myself, maybe it’s a psychotic break.
I would normally get Halle to give me her dream interpretation—she loves that shit—but I can’t exactly divulge all the issues with my family. So maybe I’ll just google it later.
I stand from the bed, taking off my dress and panties before throwing on the oversized black T-shirt and boxers. I look around the room, finding a door I assume is an adjoining bathroom, and head in to clean the toy. Before I can make it all the way in, though, I find a full-length mirror opposite the door, and I stop dead.
The shirt I’m wearing, it isn’t just a plain, oversized black T-shirt. It’s a Beyoncé World Tour shirt. In big, white writing across my boobs is her name, and in giant print down the center of the shirt is Beyoncé herself, looking hot as fuck in her silver cowboy bikini getup. My jaw drops.
Caleb isn’t just a fan, he’s, like, asuperfan.
With my jaw still hanging open, and a disbelieving laugh working its way up my throat, I continue farther into the bathroom, mulling over the fact that Caleb Smith—the self-namedcloser,playboy idiot is a die-hard Beyoncé fan. Who would have thought?
Woah.
My analysis of Caleb’s weird side obsessions comes to a halt when I’m faced with the most stunning bathroom I’ve ever seen.Twin basins sit in white stone that is thick and smooth, low backlit mirrors above both sinks with an entire wall for a shower, together with two black shower heads and a bench seat that runs the entire length of the shower wall. The toilet is in a separate little room, accessible by a door near the sinks, but the main feature of this room is opposite the shower.
In front of an industrial-style floor-to-ceiling window that looks over the city, with an incredible nighttime view, is a small, raised platform with a wide circular bath right in the center of it. Like the bath is the main event on stage or something. I gaze longingly at the bath before heading to the sink to wash the toy.
I’m only just finished when Caleb knocks lightly before entering and slowly walking up behind me. He places a cup that has steam billowing out of it on the vanity before sliding his hands into his pockets. Is now a good time to tell him I don’t drink tea?
