Chapter 99
Brianna's POV
My head felt like someone had used it as a drum in a death metal concert.
I cracked one eye open—mistake number one—and immediately regretted every life choice that had led to this moment. Sunlight stabbed through a gap in the curtains, turning my eyeballs into overcooked eggs. My mouth tasted like something had died in it, possibly my dignity.
Where the hell am I?
The ceiling was unfamiliar. Plain white, hotel-generic. Not my dorm room. Definitely not my dorm room. I tried to sit up—mistake number two—and my stomach lurched violently, threatening rebellion.
Okay. Assess the situation. What's the last thing you remember?
The family gathering. Dad's birthday dinner at that pretentious country club. The forced smiles. Mom's white-knuckled grip on her champagne flute. Dad's wandering attention. The drive home in suffocating silence. The fight—oh God, the fight—voices rising to shrieks and cold, cutting words that sliced through our mansion like broken glass.
After that? Fragments. Pine Bar's neon sign. Vodka burning down my throat. The cold pavement. Someone's hands catching me—
Someone's hands.
My heart kicked into overdrive. I turned my head—mistake number three—and there he was.
A stranger. A shirtless stranger in a half-open hotel bathrobe, slouched in the desk chair with his head tilted back, fast asleep. Dark hair falling across his forehead. A jawline that suggested he didn't skip leg day or any other day. And absolutely, definitely not someone I knew.
Panic shot through me like electricity. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand—thank God it was there—checking the time: 7:23 AM. My clothes? I looked down. Everything intact but wrinkled. My hotel keycard sat beside the phone.
What the actual fuck happened last night?
The rational part of my brain tried to piece things together, but the panicked part was already screaming. Strange hotel room. Strange man. No memory. This is how horror stories begin.
I did the only thing that made sense in that moment.
I lunged across the space between us and slapped him as hard as I could.
The crack of palm meeting cheek echoed through the room like a gunshot. He jerked awake, the momentum sending him tumbling sideways off the chair. He hit the floor with a thud that probably woke up everyone on this floor, his bathrobe flying open in a way that would've been comical under literally any other circumstances.
"What the hell?!" He stared up at me from the carpet, one hand pressed to his rapidly reddening cheek, confusion and pain written all over his face.
I backed up against the headboard, my voice coming out higher and shakier than I'd intended. "Who are you? Why are you in my room?"
He slowly pushed himself up to sitting, keeping his hands visible like he was trying to calm a spooked animal. Which, fair—I probably looked feral right now. "I'm Jake. Medical student. I—" He winced, touching his face gingerly. "I found you passed out outside Pine Bar last night around eleven. You were really drunk."
"That doesn't explain—" I gestured wildly at him, at the room, at everything.
"You threw up on me," he said flatly, and something about the exhausted resignation in his voice made me pause. "Twice. I used your hotel keycard to get you back here safely. You were in no condition to be alone—I was worried about aspiration, choking, alcohol poisoning."
I stared at him, my heart still hammering, but my brain was starting to catch up. I checked myself again—clothes definitely all on, underwear intact. My phone showed several missed texts from my roommate Vanessa, asking if I was okay.
"I—" My voice cracked. "I don't remember any of this."
"You wouldn't." Jake carefully stood up, tying his bathrobe closed with movements that suggested every muscle in his body hurt. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair stuck up in about fifteen different directions. "That's what black-out drunk means. But I promise you, I spent the whole night in that chair making sure you kept breathing. Your respiration got sketchy around three AM, and I was ready to call 911 if it got worse."
Something about the clinical way he described it—respiration, 911, black-out drunk—made it sound real. Made it sound true. I looked at the chair he'd been sleeping in, at his exhausted face, at the genuine hurt in his eyes from where I'd hit him.
"I am so sorry." The words tumbled out. "I just—I woke up and didn't know where I was, and you were—"
"Shirtless and creepy-looking?" He managed a tired smile that made his whole face soften. "Yeah, I get it. This looks really bad. If I were you, I would've done more than slap me. Maybe thrown something."
Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. "The lamp was my second option."
"Good to know I got off easy." He ran a hand through his disaster of hair, making it worse. "Look, I know this is awkward as hell, but... are you okay? Like, actually okay? Because people don't usually drink themselves into oblivion for fun."
The question hit me harder than I'd hit him. My automatic response rose up—I'm fine, it's nothing, mind your own business—but the words stuck in my throat. Because I wasn't fine. I hadn't been fine since I'd watched my parents' marriage crumble into a performance art piece of mutual destruction.
"That's none of your business," I said instead, and immediately hated how harsh it sounded.
Jake nodded slowly, no judgment in his expression. "You're right. Sorry for overstepping." He moved toward the bathroom. "I should get out of your hair. Or what's left of my dignity. Whichever comes first."
Guilt crashed over me in waves. He'd spent the entire night in that torture device of a chair, making sure I didn't die, and I'd repaid him with violence and attitude.
"Wait." The word came out before I could stop it. "I don't even know your name. Your real name."
He turned back, and for the first time since I'd assaulted him, he smiled—really smiled. "Jake. Jake Harris. Second-year med student at CVU. Professional vomit target, apparently."
I couldn't help it. I laughed, even though it made my head throb. "Brianna Ford. Drama major. Professional disaster."
"Ford?" His eyebrows shot up. "Brianna Ford? Wait—you're the girl who performed at the 150th Anniversary Celebration."
I blinked, genuinely surprised. "You watched that?"
"The whole campus watched that. You were amazing." He shook his head, wonder coloring his voice. "Your voice has this... fragile power to it. Campus Whispers was calling you 'CVU's Lady Gaga' for weeks."
Warmth spread through my chest, temporarily overriding the pounding headache. "Then why didn't you recognize me last night?"
Jake's tired smile turned sheepish. "Well, stage-Brianna had full glam makeup, a sequined dress, and professionally styled hair. Last-night-Brianna had, uh..." He paused diplomatically. "Different makeup. Very different. Plus, I was more focused on keeping you alive than playing celebrity recognition games."
"So you're saying I looked like hot garbage?"
"I was going to say 'like you'd had a rough night,' but sure, let's go with hot garbage." His eyes crinkled with humor. "For what it's worth, even Lady Gaga herself would've been unrecognizable under the same circumstances."
I laughed again, and this time it didn't hurt quite as much. The tension in the room shifted, easing from uncomfortable to something almost... nice.
"Jake." I met his eyes, forcing myself to be genuine. "Thank you. For taking care of me. And I'm really, really sorry I hit you."
"Honestly? I probably had it coming from some karmic perspective." He pulled out his phone. "But if you ever need help again—or just want to talk—you can reach me. Med students are used to being woken up at weird hours anyway."
I took his phone and entered my number, adding a note: Brianna (Not Lady Gaga). When I handed it back, he read it and grinned.
"Perfect. I'll save you under 'Slapper with Good Taste in Music.'"
"Don't you dare."
He was already typing, that mischievous glint in his eyes making him look less exhausted and more... attractive. Which was a thought I absolutely did not need right now.
As he headed for the door again, he paused with his hand on the handle. "Hey, Brianna? Whatever made you drink that much last night... I'm not going to pry. But if you ever want to talk about it—no judgment, no questions asked—I'm around."
Something inside my chest cracked. Just a little. Just enough to make my eyes sting.
"I'll remember that," I managed.