Emelie didn't even have to open her eyes to know that she was in an unfamiliar place.
She groggily surveyed the room she was in, growing more and more alarmed with the lack of recognition.
She was in a spacious bedroom, with pale gray walls and dark wood floors. The bed she was in was king-sized, upholstered with black leather and layered with luxurious charcoal linens. A single, continuous wall-length window covered the entirety of the right side of the room, and Emelie could faintly see sunlight appearing from beneath the cloudy curtains. She brought her attention to the opposite wall, and found huge, gorgeous photographs of the ocean. They were the only real source of color in the otherwise hyper-modern room.
She squinted to admire them, and was shocked to find that the photographs were actually canvas paintings. The detail was exquisite, so photo-like, that Emelie had to reach out and touch the canvas just to be certain.
Remembering she was in an unfamiliar place, Emelie looked down and surveyed herself, and her panic began to return. She was wearing a large white t-shirt, and no panties. Had Jake taken her back here last night? This certainly didn't look like any of the campus housing at State. Was this his parents' home? A hotel? Had they had sex?
Emelie fell back into the bed and tried to piece together what had occurred last night. Her memories became extremely hazy beyond drinking with her friends on the football field. She remembered leaving with Jake, alone, and then he was kissing her in the parking lot at school.
Emelie received a second, more powerful wave of anxiety when she remembered the pill that Jake had forced into her mouth. Her memories beyond that point were convoluted and impossible to piece together. She remembered Jake forcing himself on her, seemingly growing bigger no matter how hard she fought him.
Had he actually...raped her last night?
Emelie began to cry, aggravating her aching head. She wiped her tears with the corner of the T-shirt, and suddenly was filled with a strange sense of calm.
She inhaled the scent of the T-shirt deeply, and it seemed to cause her nerves to settle. The shirt smelled like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. Even though she didn't know where it came from, the scent was still somehow familiar. It smelled clean and fresh, highly masculine, and also...safe.
It was then that the most crucial memory of the night came back to her: Carlisle.
******
Emelie exited the bedroom and crept down a long hallway. Like the room she'd been sleeping in, the apartment was dark and hyper modern, almost sterile, with the exception of the vibrantly colorful paintings that hung on the walls. There were stunning canvases of oceans, lakes, waterfalls, and even glaciers, all with exceptional detail that bewitched her eyes like photographs.
Emelie eventually reached a staircase and tentatively walked down to the first floor, careful not to move too fast and aggravate her head. She didn't feel sick, exactly. This was nothing like how hangovers had been described to her. Instead, she felt incredibly...weak, as if all of her energy had been depleted the night before.
When she reached the first floor, Emelie realized that she was not in any ordinary apartment.
She was in a penthouse.
Luxurious modern furniture in glass and dark leather tastefully decorated the huge open area of the two-story living room, along with even more paintings of natural waters and ices. Emelie walked over to the wall of windows and surveyed her surroundings, in an attempt to place where she was. Through the distance, she could see the glittering high rises of downtown, and the immediate view from the penthouse largely consisted of thick trees and grassy parks.
Emelie exhaled in relief. This was an area she recognized. She was no more than twenty minutes away from home.
A sound to her right jolted her to attention, and Emelie began to tentatively walk toward its source. She passed through a large, doorless entryway, and was immediately greeted by the sight of Carlisle, in a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt, making breakfast.
"Hi," Emelie called quietly.
Carlisle glanced at her and smiled softly.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked.
Emelie sat down on a barstool, slightly jumping at the feeling of the cold leather against the bare backs of her thighs.
"Like I was in a coma...what happened last night?" Emelie asked. Bits and pieces were beginning to fill the gaps in her memory, but she didn't trust herself to determine what had actually happened. Her memories seemed fanciful, as if she'd been on some kind of hallucinogenic.
Carlisle looked uncomfortable as he began plating breakfast. Emelie's stomach growled in hunger when she noticed the eggs, bacon, potatoes, and Belgian waffles that had been prepared.
"Well...your date gave you ecstasy. Since you were already drunk, I didn't think it would be safe to leave you at the school. Or with him," Carlisle said carefully.
He put the plate in front of her, and Emelie felt her stomach growl in appreciation. It smelled delicious.
"So you brought me back here?" Emelie asked, beginning to eat the waffles. She'd tried to take ladylike bites, but she was far too hungry to sustain them. It tasted like buttery sweet heaven, perfectly prepared, crisp on the outside and gooey on the inside, and Emelie couldn't contain her delight.
"Yes. You were really...out of it," Carlisle said.
Emelie tried to swallow her embarrassment with the perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes. The more she ate, the more she remembered the night before, and her behavior was nothing short of humiliating.
Perhaps that was the reason why Carlisle looked so uncomfortable.
When she finished eating, Carlisle quietly took her plate and began doing the dishes.
"Thanks for letting me stay here last night...I hope I didn't put anyone out," Emelie offered. Carlisle shook his head, but it seemed like he was trying to avoid looking at her.
"Don't be silly. It was the right thing to do," he said, although it almost sounded like he was talking to himself.
"So just to be clear...there's no wife? Or...girlfriend?" Emelie asked.
Carlisle finally looked at her then, and he gave her a weak smile.
"No, Emelie," he replied. Emelie bit her lip, unsure of how to ask the obvious follow up question.
"So...you live here with your...parents?" Emelie asked. Carlisle frowned, clearly not understanding the direction of her thoughts.
She should have abandoned the curiosity, but it simply didn't make sense — Carlisle was a school teacher. How was he able to live in a penthouse?
Recognition finally seemed to appear in his eyes, and Carlisle's face hardened in the grim expression Emelie recognized the most. It was that same curt, annoyed, almost-scowl that he maintained every day in class.
"This place is mine, Emelie. No wife, no girlfriend. No parents or roommates here," Carlisle replied sharply.
Emelie immediately felt guilty for offending him, far more guilty than she'd expected. She could feel her face turning red as her heart began to race, and she became frantically desperate to apologize. It was like she was a child again, and had been caught doing or saying something naughty.
And the look on Carlisle's face silently guaranteed that she would be punished for it.
"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be rude. Your home is very beautiful. Especially the paintings," Emelie offered.
He didn't immediately answer her, but she could feel some of his tension begin to dissipate.
"Here. Now that you've eaten something I imagine you could probably use this," he said. He handed her a bottle of ibuprofen, and it was only then that Emelie remembered her pounding headache.
The sight of Carlisle in the kitchen was a very effective distraction.
Emelie quickly swallowed two pills with a generous sip of juice, dually unsettled and charmed by the attentive way Carlisle was immediately at her side to refill her glass. The feeling of guilt was suddenly disrupted by a not entirely negative feeling of debt, and Emelie found herself desiring to...thank him, somehow.
"Why'd you do it?" Emelie asked eventually. Despite the pause of silence between them, Carlisle seemed to know what she was talking about. He sat down at the barstool in front of her, and seemed to weigh his words before he spoke again.
"I couldn't just let him...violate you like that. I know I shouldn't have brought you here, but...I was just trying to keep you safe," Carlisle replied.
Emelie reached out and placed her hand over his.
"Thank you, Mr. Carlisle. I don't know what I would've done if it weren't for you," Emelie said. She meant the words with all her heart, but for some reason, they didn't sound as sincere or profound as she'd intended. Carlisle had
saved
her. She was terrified to think about what could have happened if it weren't for him.
She owed him more than she could fathom.
Emelie ran her fingers across Carlisle's forearm, fascinated by the strong sinews of muscle and dilated veins. She felt him flinch beneath her touch as his breathing increased, but he didn't move away.
"Emelie..."
Emelie raised her eyes, and offered Carlisle her best smile. But his expression hardened even further, and Emelie quickly pulled her hand away.
"Would you like me to call a car for you? I left your dress, shoes, and purse on the nightstand in the room you slept in. Your phone is there, too," Carlisle said gruffly.
Emelie crossed her arms in front of her body, finding herself chilled by the sudden frost that seemed to permeate through the kitchen. There was no way she could properly thank Carlisle if he insisted on keeping his distance from her.
She couldn't understand why he was
still
pushing her away. They weren't at school or any public place — they were in his penthouse, completely secluded. She was wearing his shirt. She'd slept in his bed. Surely, whatever connection they had was more personal than that of a student and teacher. Emelie was certain she hadn't imagined his tenderness, his attention.
